


Fly to Live

by Eretsonoferet



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bromance, Coming of Age, Dragons, Drama, Exile, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, Growing Up, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Politics, Self-Discovery, Survival, War, mild romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-04-19 09:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 174,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4740629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eretsonoferet/pseuds/Eretsonoferet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>What if Astrid manages to reach the village after fleeing the cove to expose Hiccup's secret? How will Hiccup and Toothless leave now for their "little vacation"?</p>
<p>This is the coming-of-age story of a boy and a dragon, the story of their flight into exile, their struggle for survival, and their quest for a place to finally call home. Will they find it? Will they ever go back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any part of the official How to Train Your Dragon franchise.

**Preface by the author**

Welcome to my "Hiccup-leaving" story! I know this concept has been explored quite a lot already, but I wanted to write a rather different, possibly grittier, and more realistic interpretation of it.

This will mainly be a **coming-of-age** story, with a particular focus on the characters of Hiccup and Toothless, and the bond they share. The predominant themes will therefore be **adventure** and **friendship** , with some **drama** on the side. There will also be a little bit of **romance** and **family** (and healthy doses of bromance of course).

Each chapter will have the point of view of a single character, announced between parentheses after the chapter’s title. Hiccup and Toothless will be the most frequent.

The rating should be T for some language, mild violence, and mild suggestive themes. If a chapter contains higher-rated content, there will be a warning.

Finally, here are the main changes that I made to the movie-canon, before this story takes off in its own direction:

  1. **In this alternate universe (AU), dragon raids occur only in the warmer months. Dragon training is thus provided during the winter.**
  2. **With that in mind, Hiccup shot Toothless down during the very last raid of the year, in early October, about seven months before the beginning of this story.**
  3. **This story therefore begins at the end of April, moments before Astrid finds out about Toothless.**
  4. **At the beginning of this story, Hiccup and the other teens are all thirteen years old, instead of fifteen.**
  5. **In this AU, Hiccup’s mother supposedly died when Hiccup was six years old.**



Smaller canon divergences about past events may transpire as the story develops.

For more information on this story, I invite you to look at my profile page, where you will also find links to the related maps and sketches.

Please do consider leaving a comment or review to inform me of any mistakes or inconsistencies, or just to tell me what you think. I find both approval and criticism equally valuable.

Thanks for reading!


	2. I'm a Viking

**ACT I: FLIGHT**

**(Astrid)**

 

It was with fake enthusiasm that her prey suddenly exclaimed “We’re leaving!” as he trudged further into the cove, carrying a heavy basket on his back.

“Let’s pack up! Looks like you and me are taking a little vacation,” the boy continued. Then, with his voice deflated to a lonesome murmur, he closed his brief monologue with a single, dejected word: “Forever.”

The boy took a quick, wistful look at his surroundings, and sighed deeply, puffing out his cheeks. Finally, he put down the basket. Yet, from the hunch of his shoulders, it looked as if he was still carrying some other weight, something that he could not simply lay on the ground. Some other burden perhaps.

Astrid could almost see it in him, but she could not begin to fathom what it was. There was only one question in her mind at the moment: _Who is he talking to?!_

Hiccup, the chief’s son, had always been a strange kid. Scrawny, but also reckless, stubborn, yet far too erratic and unpredictable, shy and often aloof, but at times even overly friendly. Had Astrid been asked to find one word to describe him, she would have chosen _‘eccentric’_. With four words, she would have just said: _‘Not good Viking material’_.

Nonetheless, talking out loud to himself was too weird, even for Hiccup Haddock. The boy was obviously hiding something. This was why Astrid had decided to follow him today, the day of the final trial, not long before the ceremonial fight, which was supposed to take place at noon.

Just yesterday, Hiccup had won the honor to fight and possibly kill this year’s captive Monstrous Nightmare, thus robbing her of the opportunity to show her village that _she_ was actually the worthy champion. Needless to say, this didn’t sit well with her.

Astrid had never been the jealous type. Truth be told, she had never had the opportunity to be. She was faster, stronger, and more agile than any of her peers, and she was smarter too. Not book smart, as she would have defined Fishlegs (and perhaps even Hiccup sometimes), but warrior smart. More than once, she had demonstrated a remarkable talent for thinking on her feet. She was sure that, by now, she had enough combat experience to fight on par with some adults thrice her size.

So, when Hiccup, a lean, weak, clumsy little runt of a boy, had started outperforming her in dragon-fighting, she quickly became acquainted with the unacceptable feeling of jealousy and, soon afterwards, outrage.

 _How? HOW?!_ She would ask herself every time the scrawny kid bested her in the fighting pit. She had grown increasingly certain that Hiccup was somehow cheating.

 _Either someone is training him or_ … she had found no other solution to her conundrum, hence her decision to tail him into the forest, applying her well-honed hunting abilities. This was, after all, her last chance to finally uncover the boy’s secret.

After reaching the narrow entrance to what appeared to be a large depression in the ground, a beautiful little heaven had opened before her. Her eyes were wide at the sight.

The vegetation was lush, covering most of the rocky walls around with vines and tree roots. Vibrant green grass and moss coated the usually muddy soil, with bright April flowers filling the few gaps. A dark lake divided the space, and smooth round boulders decorated the area.

It was upon one of those boulders that Hiccup now sat, alone, fumbling around with what appeared to be a small, brown, leather sail, which he had just pulled out of his basket. It almost looked like a wing. Or was it a fin? Astrid couldn’t tell from her hiding spot, but she was willing to bet it was somehow related to his secret. Her curiosity peaked.

“No, no, no... Damn it! I forgot the good one at the forge!” Hiccup groaned in obvious frustration. “We can’t leave without it. Toothless, I have to go back.”

 _What in Thor’s name is he talking about?! What has he forgotten? What’s ‘toothless’? And who is he talking to? That’s it!_ Astrid would not wait any longer; it was time to confront him.

She unbuckled her trusty axe, and held it firmly in her hand. She was not scared of Hiccup of course, but she knew to be ever careful. What if there _was_ someone else there?

Astrid stepped into the cove, resting the weapon on her shoulder with an air of confidence.

“I want to know what’s going on,” she opened, matter-of-factly.

The demand was met with a surprised yelp. The leather contraption slipped from the boy’s arms, rolling onto the ground.

“ _A-ASTRID!?_ Hey...! H-Hi, Astrid!” Hiccup yowled, stuttering while also attempting to kick the fallen object out of her sight. “Hi Astrid!” He added once again, this time trying to sound pleasantly surprised. Failing miserably at that, he began to pant. He could not hide the fact that he had been scared out of his wits.

Astrid savored the situation, but she fought back the urge to grin. She needed answers.

“So. Spit it out.” She approached him with a menacing glare, and an even more menacing weapon. She was taller than him. Hiccup stumbled backwards a couple of times.

“Wha- what do you mean?”

“ _No one_ just gets as good as you have. _Especially_ you _._ ” She poked him hard. “Start talking.”

Hiccup only moaned incoherently.

“Are you training with someone?”

“Wha- _training?_ With who?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “ _You_ tell me.” She reached to grab him from his vest, when she noticed the leather straps that formed some sort of harness around him. “It better not involve _this!_ ”

“Ah _this_ ,” he stammered, “well… this is, uhh...”

A faint cracking sound caught Astrid’s attention, but Hiccup continued with what she could only surmise was a very suspicious behavior.

“I can explain… I- I’m through with the lies. I’ve been making, uhh… _outfits!_ You got me.” He feigned a laugh, but Astrid ignored it as she looked for the source of the sound, towards the darker side of the cove. “So now you know the truth,” he continued. “Drag me back.” Placing his hand in hers, he motioned towards the narrow passage. “Here we go...”

Astrid had had enough. Now weary of her surroundings, she twisted Hiccup’s wrist, forcing him to the ground and earning a pained cry from the boy.

“Why would you do that?” He complained.

Astrid ignored him.

The yelp had stirred whatever was hiding in the shade. A roar, and Astrid’s eyes widened with shock. A gasp escaped her lungs at the sight of a pitch-black body suddenly springing in their direction out of thin air; sharp eyes and sharper teeth the only features she could detect. Warrior’s instincts kicked in, and, before she could think, her axe was flying straight towards those slitted eyes.

“NO!” Hiccup all but howled, but Astrid paid the boy no mind.

The dark beast managed a terrifying feat. With quick reflexes, it tumbled to the side, parrying her perfect throw as its scaly front paw deflected the axe into the pond, without ever stopping the sprint towards them. The creature, as far as Astrid could see, had only sustained a minor injury on its leg. Three more leaps now, and its teeth would be upon them.

Astrid feared for her life as she never had before. Then, she remembered Hiccup was still there. _The hiccup_. The village runt. The chief’s son. Something unexpected sparked within her. She had no time to think.

“Hiccup! Run!-” She shouted, hoping to buy the boy some time, but before she could finish her panicked instruction, Hiccup twisted from underneath her to get up, making her stumble and fall on her back. He then darted towards what she now recognized to be a dragon. One she had never seen before.

This black dragon was nothing like the others in the arena, nor like the ones in the raids. It was clearly faster and more agile, and, most frightening of all, its eyes shone with an intense awareness, a keen determination to kill, unlike anything Astrid had ever experienced.

So why wasn’t Hiccup running away?! In fact, why was the little runt moving _towards it?!_ And why was she on the ground _?!_ _She_ was the real Viking of the two. She had to get up. Yet, she couldn’t move anymore. Those green, slitted eyes had petrified her. She lay like that on the smooth, moss-covered floor. Her heartbeat, like a drum, played a rushed tune in her head. She could only stare, expecting to see Berk’s heir be mauled and crushed, waiting for her own turn.

“No! NO!” Hiccup yelled firmly, facing the approaching dragon.

 _He is defending me?!_ Astrid couldn’t complete the thought, before a bone-chilling, high-pitched screech filled her ears.

“ _Night Fury..._ ” She whispered unintentionally. There it was: the signature sound of the deadliest dragon no Viking had ever seen, about to fire. They were both going to die now.

“STOP!!! Stop!” The boy commanded with a voice that did not seem to belong to a ‘hiccup’. Something happened then. The dragon, in what could only be described as an astonishing turn of events, obeyed, despite the low constant growl. Then, it just stood there on all fours, with Hiccup’s hands on its snout.

“Bad dragon!” Hiccup tried to sound firm, but his voice seemed to break, betrayed by his nervous tone. “She’s a friend,” he added.

Astrid’s mind felt numb. She only dragged herself further away before her back met a boulder. Hiccup looked to be calming the black beast with soft pats on its head, talking to it. Astrid expected to wake up at any moment, so she lay there, confident that this was all a nightmare. Maybe she had died already.

After a short while however, she realized that wasn’t the case. Her instincts now told her to run, but the dragon’s eyes were still piercing her warily, so, disarmed as she was, she decided against it.

“Hiccup?” She began, still catching her breath. “What’s happening?”

The boy turned to face her with an anxious smile. “Ehh… you just scared him.”

“I scared _HIM_?! Who is ‘him’?!” She hissed.

“Ah well… Astrid. Meet Toothless! _Toothless_...” He glared at the beast, and pointed towards her with an open hand: “Astrid.”

A snarl followed her name. By this time, her breathing had evened out, and a swarm of questions surged in her mind.

“Hiccup? What are you doing with that monster?!” She shouted.

A hiss was the first answer she received.

 _Did it understand what I said?_ Astrid asked herself. _No, that’s impossible, it must have been the tone of my voice._

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” Hiccup admitted.

“ _Try_ ,” she commanded.

“Well...” The boy kept one hand caressing the dragon while he scratched the back of his own head with the other, trying to gather the words. “Remember back in… was it October? After the last raid before winter, when I said I had actually hit a Night Fury with the Automated Bola Launcher number seven? The one with the double steel spring and rotating-”

“No way...” Astrid cut him off. She remembered well. That raid had been a disaster. Hiccup had let himself be chased by a Nightmare in the plaza, distracting the chief, who was keeping a sizable herd of sheep from getting caught. He had then allowed the dragon to destroy one of the giant torches by hiding behind it, which had then fallen, rolling down the entire village towards the docks, laying waste and setting a ship on fire. Thankfully, there had been no casualties, which was probably the only reason why Hiccup was still allowed to roam freely.

“Yeah, well,” he continued, “nobody believed me so I went into the forest to prove it. But he was still alive and tangled in the bola. I thought I would finish him off, but... I couldn’t. He looked so… I just couldn’t. And then I freed him and… one thing kind of led to another, and we… became friends.”

Astrid slowly stood up, hoping her legs had stopped trembling, but she carefully kept her distance. Hiccup’s words had left her speechless. The implications were awful.

“You became friends... with a _dragon?!_ Do you understand what this means?! You befriended the enemy, Hiccup!” She spoke with unexpected concern in her voice. Astrid was so appalled at the notion, that she was sure, somehow, these words would make Hiccup suddenly realize what he had done.

 _Maybe he just can’t see it. He has always been strange. But to betray his own village?_ She could imagine nothing worse.

Hiccup hadn’t moved from the Night Fury’s side, still clinging onto its neck, keeping the now seemingly docile creature restrained.

“Please Astrid, it’s not like you think,” he said. “Not all dragons are evil, they _can_ be reasoned with, I’m sure there’s more to them than we see. I’ve learnt so much thanks to Toothless. That’s how I’ve survived all this time in the arena.”

“Wait,” Astrid said. “Wait.” Realization came quickly after that. “Oh gods... I _knew_ _it!_ ” She yelled with a sudden surge of anger, ignoring the menacing glare she was receiving from the not-so-toothless dragon. “You cheated to win! I can’t believe this. You... You...” She was at a loss for words, blinded by rage.

“Come on Astrid, what other choice did I have? I mean, look at me. I can barely lift a shield, much less kill a Monstrous Nightmare.”

“Then why in Freya’s name did you join the training?! You are the chief’s son! Why didn’t you just.... stay home?!”

“Because my father made me!” Hiccup shot back. “He wouldn’t listen. I didn’t want to join! I didn’t wish to win against _you,_ and I don’t want to kill a dragon! That’s why I’m leaving.” He breathed. “ _We_ are leaving.” Hiccup’s firm, resolute voice was back now, something Astrid could not remember the boy ever displaying with her. Yet, she wasn’t deterred.

“Oh no. You can’t get away with this! You humiliated me! You are a liar! A traitor! You’ve betrayed Berk! When the chief finds out... even if he’s your father, you _will_ be tried for treason! I won’t let you flee like a coward!”

Astrid had great respect for the chief. His rule was honorable, wise and unwavering, ever mindful of Viking tradition. She was confident that he’d never make an exception, even for his own son.

“Oh, oh yeah?” Hiccup stuttered. “And how do you plan to stop us?”

Astrid didn’t flinch. Bravado didn’t suit the scrawny teen. Even with a dragon by his side, his bluff was apparent. He didn’t have all the advantage, and he knew it. Of course, Astrid had finally understood the meaning of the leather harness. Nontheless, even if Hiccup could indeed ride the Night Fury, she still had a plan. She wasn’t going to be outsmarted by the little runt. Not anymore.

“I know you have to go back to the forge,” she said. “I heard you before. If I get there first, you are done.” She had the faintest hint of a smirk on her face. Although she was much better at it than him, she was bluffing too. She suspected Hiccup could have had the dragon kill her then and there, but the boy clearly lacked the guts to let the beast loose on her. The Night Fury, however, looked more than eager to bite her head off.

_Hiccup won’t allow it. Will he?_

“What makes you think you can outrun a Night Fury?” Hiccup asked. He was trying his best to sound confident, but Astrid knew now she had a chance. She was going to bet everything with her next words.

“Nobody can, but I _can_ outrun you. You won’t enter the village with the Night Fury. The only way to keep me from telling the Chief is for you to have your pet dragon kill me. Right here. Right now.”

Hiccup looked suddenly very sick, as if on the verge of tears. The dragon produced a deep growl, and, for a moment, Astrid thought the beast had understood what she had said, and was preparing to attack, when Hiccup’s hand absentmindedly brushed the dark scaly snout.

Was that sorcery she was witnessing? Whatever it was, it had to be evil. It went against everything she had been taught.

“ _Kill_ you? I... How can you say that?” The young boy asked. His face looked miserable. His reaction to her taunt was even stronger than she had expected.

 _Is he going to cry? Is he trying to make me feel guilty for doing what is right? How dare he! HE is the traitor!_ Astrid would not waver. _I’m a Viking!_ She told herself. Then, she began removing her iron shoulder guards, letting each fall to the mossy ground with a dull clunk. Timing was crucial.

Hiccup’s baffled look was all she needed. She untied her iron-spiked skirt and, carefully, she lowered it to the floor, revealing her tight leggings beneath. The metal-reinforced skirt was heavy; it would have slowed her down.

By that time, Hiccup’s staring face had flushed with a much healthier-looking shade of pink. He looked almost… adorable, which Astrid found disturbingly surprising. She stepped slowly out of the skirt, holding her crouching position. She tilted her head towards the boy and looked into his almost unnaturally green eyes.

 _They are like this forest,_ she thought with an unintentional smile, and the words escaped her mouth:

“Sorry Hiccup.”

Before boy and dragon could blink, Astrid’s muscles hardened, stretching her clothes, and she darted with all her speed towards the narrow passage that led into the woods. The dragon couldn’t follow her there, and Hiccup was too slow to react.

As soon as she reached the crevice, she knew that she had practically made it. There was no stopping her now. Hiccup could have found a way to keep her captive there. Thankfully, the boy was distracted enough by the sight of her without her armored garments.

Astrid couldn’t help feeling a little guilty for what she had pulled off. She had always been aware of the boys’ weakness to the female body, but she had never thought it would come in handy to a warrior like her, just as her mother had often, perhaps wisely, suggested. It felt good and bad at the same time to hold such strange power, partly because she couldn’t fully understand it.

“ _Thor’s...!_ Toothless! We have to catch her!”

Those were the last words she heard before making her way out of the crevice, and into the woods. Now she could _really_ run. There was no one faster than her on the island, she knew. Astrid had mastered her technique in that very forest, chasing after her late mentor, uncle Finn Hofferson. She stepped only on stones and roots, avoiding soft muddy floor, and she jumped just enough over the obstacles before her.

As Astrid sprinted, dodging pines and redwoods, small beads of sweat started forming on her brows. She ignored them to keep her concentration solely on speed. The road was not short. About half a league, she guessed.

She chose to follow a slightly different path to the village, so as to stay where trees were thicker, just in case the Night Fury decided to descend upon her, and snatch her from the ground. That proved to be a wise decision.

Through the dense foliage of the trees, with a carefully timed glance, Astrid spotted the black, winged beast above her. Hiccup was riding it, as she had suspected.

 _Sorcery indeed,_ she thought.

“Try to catch her bud! But don’t hurt her!” Hiccup yelled from above.

The dragon, however, could not get to her. The thick fabric of branches and leaves protected Astrid from being approached by anything bigger than a Terrible Terror.

After a few more failed attempts at reaching her, Hiccup spoke again: “Leave her, Toothless. We can still make it!”

 _They must be going to the village,_ Astrid realized. She knew Hiccup would not expose the dragon to a whole town full of Vikings. Even the offspring of lightning and death itself could not stand a chance against a horde of Berkian armed warriors in plain daylight. Assuming he left the dragon to wait at the edge of the forest, the boy would still need to go to the forge and back. She could still catch up to him, but she had to go faster.

So she did, forcing her muscles to kick the ground harder, ignoring the low branches that scratched her soft cheeks as she sped through the woods of Raven Point.

Panting heavily, Astrid started hearing the sounds of the village. They were fainter than she had expected though, considering her position. She thanked the gods that the Night Fury was nowhere to be seen. Hiccup had probably left the dragon on the side of the forest closer to the village border, by the great hall, but further from the smithy.

She was almost there when she indulged in wiping her forehead. Even as she emerged from the forest, she kept her pace, running towards the plaza and the forge. She noticed, however, that many of the villagers were missing. The town was nearly empty.

 _Of course! The ceremony!_ She grunted inside. She had forgotten this was the day of Hiccup’s last trial. And it was noon now. Everybody was at the arena, waiting for the event to start. If she could not tell the chief now, then she would need to buy herself time by keeping Hiccup on the island. Alas, her body had reached its limit, and the exhaustion from her record-breaking sprint was starting to set in. She was going to need help. Fortunately, someone had been left behind, and even more fortunately, that man was Gobber.

“Lass, ‘ave you seen Hiccup? He’s nowhere to be found. The people are waiting for the big event. ‘Tis not wise to keep an entire Viking tribe-” The man’s words trailed off when he noticed how Astrid was entirely out of breath, panting, and drenched in sweat.

Astrid stopped running, and fell on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

“What happened? Is Hiccup alright? Where is he?” Gobber asked. He was worried.

“Forsh…” Astrid mumbled, gasping for air. Two more men joined Gobber with questioning looks. Probably other people sent to look for the chief’s son.

“Forgh…” she tried again.

The blacksmith approached her with a worried look, kneeling beside her, and holding her with his one good arm. “Slow down, lass. Breathe. Tell us. What happened?”

Astrid breathed deeply, and, finally, she managed to shout:

“HE’S AT THE FORGE!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I didn't make Astrid seem too unlikable, though I believe my portrayal of her is consistent with that of the first half of the first movie, where, as I recall, she was presented as rather violent, blunt, competitive, and stubborn, (but also righteous, loyal, and honourable). In other words, a true Viking, at least in the movie’s own interpretation of Vikingness.
> 
> I hence found Astrid’s change of attitude in the second half of the movie to be a little abrupt. So, while the movie tries to deal with her transformation by use of the 'romantic flight' montage, here I’d rather make her eventual acceptance of Hiccup (and his views) more gradual, arduous, and, most importantly, consistent with her initial personality, which I particularly admired.


	3. Monstrous Nightmare

**(Hiccup)**

 

_Odin’s beard!_

Hiccup could not believe it. As soon as he heard Astrid’s shout from the plaza, thus revealing his position to the mob of people that were looking for him, his knees gave out.

Astrid had managed what he had thought to be impossible. She had outrun a Night Fury. And yet, she hadn’t. Hiccup had lost quite a bit of time putting the prosthetic fin and saddle on Toothless, before finally chasing after her. Still, he had been flying. Wasn’t he supposed to be faster?

It was his own fault actually, he knew. He should have flown directly to the village without trying to catch the running girl. Instead, Hiccup had still hoped to explain everything in a way that Astrid would have eventually understood. He had wanted to give her one more chance. Despite his insistence, however, they had been unable to grab her through the thick blanket of trees, so they had only followed her for a while, wasting precious time.

If Hiccup could, he would have lingered longer, just to watch Astrid run like the wind. After all, seeing the girl without any of her armor was not something that happened every day. And while she was still very much dressed, she was nonetheless a wondrous vision in Hiccup’s eyes. Her blonde hair, her ice-blue eyes, her perfectly strong figure, and yet so feminine in certain special way, of which she seemed to be completely unaware.

That sight of her was still making Hiccup’s legs feel like fresh snow, collapsing under the weight of his fluttering chest. She was more than a Viking. She was a goddess, like one of the Valkyries, ‘ _whose fury men both fear and desire’_ , as the old saying went.

Alas, that moment hadn’t lasted long. Toothless, had groaned in urgency, and Hiccup, made once again aware of the situation, had sped up towards the village.

Even now though, with his position revealed, with no longer the chance to escape the forge unseen, he was still instinctively prepared to forgive the girl. That’s how infatuated Hiccup was with her. Astrid could do no wrong in his eyes and, from a Viking’s perspective, she probably never had. He slapped himself mentally for being so naive. His foolish behavior was now going to cost him dearly, and, even worse, it was going to endanger Toothless, his best friend. His only friend.

Ironically, the dragon’s safety was the very reason why he had returned to the village in the first place. Hiccup knew it would be best to leave the island with both the prosthetic fins he had made, because, with only one, if it happened to break someplace far away from a smithy, it was probably going to be the end for them both. However, Hiccup had only packed the spare tailfin with him that morning, forgetting the better one in his little personal room at the forge, where he used to keep most of his secret projects.

That had been his first mistake of the day. The second one was letting Astrid escape from the cove. Underestimating the formidable girl’s running skills had only been the third mistake thus far, he counted.

The voices from outside were getting closer. Hiccup had no chance to run past them and reach Toothless at the edge of the forest without being seen. Even if he could have been as fast and agile as Astrid, which he most certainly wasn’t, he would have still led them to Toothless, putting the dragon at risk even more. Vikings were, after all, very quick at throwing axes at winged creatures. They were consistent followers of the unspoken rule: ‘ _Shoot first, ~~ask questions~~... Never ask questions.’_

Hiccup had to think of another strategy, and he had to do it fast. He guessed Astrid would not reveal his secret yet, because, if she did, no one would believe her outrageous discovery right away. As recently appointed champion, Hiccup had become a somewhat popular figure, so his word held enough sway to give him a moderate, albeit temporary, sense of security. That notion was the only thing preventing him from fainting with panic.

There was a sound of steps outside, and, suddenly, Hiccup remembered he was still wearing his rather suspicious flying-vest. His heart rumbling in his chest, he wiggled out of the leather straps, and nearly ripped the harness from his torso, tossing it behind one of the counters, just as the smithy’s front door sprung open.

“HICCUP!” Gobber’s voice was louder than usual, but thankfully not angry. Hiccup had never seen Gobber angry; he didn’t think it was possible. Even when the large blonde man looked outraged, he always kept a light-hearted, humorous tone. “What in Thor’s name are ya doing here?! Did ya forget what day it is? Or did our celebrity suddenly chicken out?”

“Eh? Who? _Me?_ Chicken out? No way, I’m _faaar_ too brave for that!” Hiccup boasted nervously, trying his best to feign surprise at Gobber’s words, and confidence in his own.

“Oh yeah? Then why are ya hidin’ in ‘ere?”

“Wha- what are you talking about? Oh! You mean from the trial?” Feigning ignorance was probably his only way out. “W-Why, is it noon already?”

Hiccup was lucky that the workshop was dark inside; scarce light was only provided by the cracks in the wooden walls and open door, and Gobber was in too much of a hurry to notice he was fidgeting. He was a terrible liar.

“I was looking for my dagger you see, and I must have lost track of time,” Hiccup continued, chuckling as casually as he could. He actually knew very well where he had misplaced his old dagger. It was in fact rusting at the bottom of the small lake in the cove.

“ _Dagger?_ To kill a _dragon?_ ” Gobber offered a puzzled look, but before Hiccup could provide any comeback, the man went on: “There’s plenty of daggers in the arena. Now get yer skinny ass moving. Yer spectators have been waiting too long, and are starting to get upset.”

“Oh, great,” Hiccup mumbled. He hoped some sarcasm in his voice would conceal how terrified he felt.

The blacksmith made way for Hiccup to get out, but turned suddenly around with a suspicious look. “ _Waaait_ a moment,” he said, as if realizing something for the first time.

Hiccup froze, feeling increasingly uncomfortable under Gobber’s long, scrutinizing stare.

“Astrid knew ya’d be here, then she said something about ya being in the forest... What were ya doin’ in the forest, Hiccup?”

In response, Hiccup fidgeted with the most obvious, unsubtle gestures in his vast repertoire. “Um… well… aaah. You know…” He noticed he was sweating when he managed to come up with a good answer: “That’s where I was looking for my dagger!” His voice came out louder than he had anticipated. “You see... at first.” An obvious lie.

Gobber’s lips parted slowly, revealing his crooked teeth, and the steel oversized one that sat precariously on his bottom jaw, presenting Hiccup with what he could only describe as the most knowing, indecent, creepy grin he had ever witnessed.

“ _Looking for yer dagger,_ huh? Is that what they are calling it these days?” The man asked, but Hiccup’s oblivious stare cued him to continue. “Ah!” He exclaimed. “I should ‘ave known! I’ve never seen Astrid tired like _that_ before. And without her armor on to boot! Good for you lad!” The blacksmith poked Hiccup’s ribs jokingly with the curve of his hooked arm.

When Hiccup finally grasped what his mentor was implying, he couldn’t prevent his cheeks from burning a fierce red. While he knew very well that such implication wasn’t true, Hiccup had still always tried to be secretive about his crush for the fearsome blond maiden, without much success, though. There wasn’t probably a single Viking on Berk who had not heard about it. Yet, to Hiccup’s mild consolation, everyone seemed to ignore the fact, probably out of respect for the chief’s son, but, Hiccup suspected, most likely out of pity. The only person who, not only was incapable of ignoring this information, but instead took delight in giving Hiccup a hard time about it, was in fact Gobber.

“Ain’t ya enjoying the _champion’s prize_ a little early though? Ya just pray Hofferson doesn’t find out. Not sure Stoick is ready to pay such a high bride price!” The man guffawed heartily. “Oh, _Odin!_ What am I saying! Imagine Stoick’s face! He’ll even sell his breeches!” Gobber laughed so hard, he began coughing.

Hiccup was aflame with embarrassment, more than he usually was when confronted with Gobber’s frequent and obscene jokes. He could nonetheless see how this misunderstanding was going to work in his favor for the moment. It was not in his best interest to deny his mentor’s allegation, so he decided to play along. He still failed to come up with any coherent response. He merely let out a timid “ _Whaaat…?_ ”

“Nevermind that now lad! The blacksmith said heartily, patting his apprentice’s back on their way out. “Ya have a dragon to kill! Ya’ll tell me _all_ about it after, over a mug of ale or three! Now move on! Ya’re late!”

They left the smithy in silence, walking hurriedly under the mild spring sun. Gobber had been alone whilst retrieving Hiccup from the forge, but as they strolled towards the arena, they were joined by the other Vikings from the search party. Astrid was not among them. Even so, Hiccup knew there was no way to escape from his escort. He might have been able to outrun the one-legged blacksmith, but not any of the other, younger, faster, and still-two-legged men.

He could see no way out. As they traversed the plaza, moving to the long wooden bridge that connected the village to the training grounds, Hiccup could only hope to devise some hurried plan, trying to ignore an overwhelming sense of doom.

With Astrid knowing about Toothless, he needed to flee Berk more than ever. Yet, he suddenly realized he didn’t actually want to leave. Not like this. Not now that Astrid had proof of his betrayal. He had recently become a respected member of the village; he didn’t want to be remembered a deserter. He didn’t want to leave his home as a traitor.

Despite planning his little vacation to last, as he had put it, _‘forever’_ , Hiccup’s courage to make that decision had only been fueled by the secret thought, the hope perhaps, that he would at least always have the option to one day return. Not if they knew he had befriended a dragon though. Not if he _was_ a traitor.

Of course, Hiccup could obviously not afford to stay on Berk as a traitor either. _Unless_ , he thought in a fit of desperation, _I can convince the others that dragons aren’t as evil as they think._

_If I can manage that, I might not need to leave at all. Will taming a Monstrous Nightmare in front of everyone be enough?_ He wondered. Changing a Viking’s mind was not an easy task to accomplish, but this was his last chance, and apparently, his only choice too.

As soon as Hiccup saw the crowd that awaited him, Gobber let out a melodic cry: “Found ‘im!”

Cheers and battle cries filled the air around the empty stone pit and the closed dragon pens that comprised the stage for his much-anticipated performance. Almost every Berkian villager had gathered there to see him. Warriors, men, women, and children leaned heavily on the outside of the steel-woven dome of chains that hung above the arena, denying the captive, winged reptiles any escape, but allowing people a good view. They all eagerly waited for some blood to be spilled on the already damp floor.

Hiccup shivered, suddenly very aware of the hundreds of eyes scanning his small figure. Once he made his way through the iron gates, under the shade of the stone-covered passage that led inside, he received a pat on the shoulder from the smiling blacksmith, who handed him Hiccup’s very own, traditional horned helmet, the gift he had just recently received from his father.

“Go get the beast, lad!” The man said tenderly, before shutting the entrance behind him with a loud clank.

When Hiccup walked inside, he was overwhelmed by a chorus of shouts and cheers of his name. He instantly spotted his father. The huge, burly man with a freshly-braided, red beard stood proudly at the center opposing the gate, outside the rim of the empty pit, towering over everyone else as he ignored the carved throne that had been prepared for the occasion. He gave a knowing yet stern look at his son, before raising a single hand. The crowd promptly fell silent at the chief’s gesture.

“Pick a weapon,” he commanded solemnly.

Hiccup trudged towards the weapons rack. He felt heavy and exhausted. His resolve had dissolved entirely after seeing his father’s unwavering eyes. He didn’t want to do this, but his mind was in a panicked haze. He could not even begin to think of a better plan. It was too late now anyway, so he kept moving. The only source of energy pushing him forward was his desire to keep Toothless safe. He had to do this.

With that in mind, he noticed he couldn’t see Astrid anywhere, which was probably for the best. Hiccup was already doubting whether he could accomplish what he had set himself to do, especially considering the fact that he hadn’t prepared any dragon-grass to eventually appease his opponent, nor did he have any eels, which dragons feared for some odd reason. He didn’t even know if Monstrous Nightmares _could_ be tamed, for he had never approached one before in his training; he didn’t need Astrid’s condemning glare on top of everything else.

Hiccup picked the smallest dagger and shield he could find. He clumsily adjusted the oversized helmet on his head with the hilt of his weapon.

His voice quivered with uncertainty when he said: “I’m ready.”

Stoick finally sat on the throne with a serious frown, studying his son’s actions. He hadn’t attended many of the fights before, and this was probably the first time he could carefully observe how Hiccup actually performed.

With a nod from the chief, the wood and metal gates of the central pen were unlocked. Not an moment later, a huge, red dragon burst out, roaring angrily, its body entirely aflame.

It looked so much bigger up close, Hiccup thought, so much angrier than any of the other dragons he had approached so far. That night before winter, when another Monstrous Nightmare had chased him around the village, was only a distant memory. Now, he could finally understand the true reason behind this species’ name. He suddenly remembered the story about his father killing one such dragon before the age of twelve, and couldn’t help asking himself, not for the first time, how could he be so much different?

The dragon did not see Hiccup standing at the center of the pit right away. It roared at the yelling Vikings all around, and quickly crawled with lizard-like fashion towards the chained border to attack them, its long curved talons scraping the floor, leaving marks in the stone. The protective steel net kept the dragon inside, but its mouth flamed nonetheless at some spectators, who expertly dodged the shot.

The flames that covered the scaly creature finally died down. It began circling the arena until it ended up in its initial location, between the open cage and Hiccup. It puffed dark smoke as some of the crowd urged Berk’s heir to slaughter the dragon with imaginative and colorful (mostly red-tinged) suggestions.

The chief had leaned forward in interest, with a hand resting on the bearded chin; the red beast had finally noticed its opponent.

_Aaand I’m dead. Sorry, Toothless._

The dragon didn’t attack immediately though. Perhaps Hiccup’s lackluster brawn was not enough of a threat. They just stood in front of each other. The Nightmare was sniffing its opponent, studying him, and it quickly took notice of the laughable weapon Hiccup was holding, narrowing its eyes.

Hiccup knew what to do. He let go of the dagger and shield, bowing slightly in order to avoid making too much noise as the weapons fell to the floor. He didn’t want to startle this very deadly creature by any chance.

The dragon recognized the gesture as one of surrender, and widened its eyes in surprise. So did all the Vikings around them with multiple gasps. Hiccup approached the cautious Monstrous Nightmare, whispering all the while:

“It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.” He expected the dragon to laugh at him, but it probably couldn’t understand what he had said like Toothless often did. The soft words seemed to be working though, so Hiccup proceeded to remove his helmet, earning a few muffled cries from the crowd.

“What is he doing?!”

“He’s gone mad!”

Hiccup threw the helmet on the floor, hoping it would strengthen the message he was trying to convey to the beast. “I’m not one of them,” he said, and smiled, extending his hand slowly to pat the red, scaly snout that was now at arm’s length. The dragon moved towards him, carefully closing the distance.

Everything was going perfectly, until Stoick the Vast decided to intervene: “Stop the fight,” he commanded.

“No,” Hiccup said. He was determined at this point. “I need you all to see this.” He spoke without ever averting his eyes from the reptilian ones before him. “They are not evil beasts. We don’t _have_ to kill them.”

The chief jumped to his feet with an appalled glare. Bringing down his heavy war-hammer on the protective iron fence, he thundered: “I said, STOP THE FIGHT!”

The abrupt sound alarmed the wary dragon, who suddenly abandoned all reason, and started attacking, attempting to bite Hiccup’s extended arm. Hiccup managed to avoid injury by jumping away from the sharp fangs. There was no chance of taming it now; he could only run for his life, screaming loudly with his still pathetically unbroken voice. Everything became a blur.

Thankfully, Gobber had understood what was happening, and had apparently opened the gate to let his apprentice escape. In the very next instant, the Nightmare spat a scalding stream of fire towards Hiccup’s only way out, forcing him to run in the other direction.

“HICCUP!” Somebody yelled, probably his mentor.

Hiccup could not focus. Nonetheless, despite the chaos that had erupted, he turned around towards the voice. He was abruptly greeted by the red dragon’s paw, which punched his chest with terrible force, knocking all air out of him.

Hiccup was then pinned to the ground, hitting the back of his head hard on the cold floor with a sickening _clop_. A sharp, blinding pain immediately introduced itself where his skull met stone. Time began to slow. There was no escape as he lay trapped under the heavy, clawed limb of his attacker.

_The gods must hate me,_ Hiccup thought. _I’m going to die after making a fool of myself. Perfect! At least I’ll see mom in Valhalla._ Then, a final thought occurred to him. _Oh, who am I kidding. I’m definitely going to Helheim._

Hiccup let his eyes close resentfully, hoping for a quick death, when a piercing screech made its way through the fading, muffled noises in his ears.

_Toothless! No…_

The explosion of Night Fury fire was the last sound Hiccup managed to hear, before he softly fell into unconsciousness.


	4. Freak

**(Hiccup)**

 

Trickling water drops chimed at different distances, creating a vague semblance of music to his ears. Apart from that, the place was eerily silent.

He was lying prone on some floor, its surface pressed cold and hard on his face and hands.

Slowly regaining his senses, Hiccup opened his eyes to the sight of a dark, rocky wall. Faint daylight seemed to pour in from some cracks in the stone high above; it was probably past noon. He tried to get up, but his vision spun badly and his body refused to obey. Unable to move, Hiccup tried to determine where he was, based on what little he knew.

He knew he wasn’t dead, for a start, unless of course Valhalla was actually nothing but some dark, wet cave.

_No, Hiccups don’t go to Valhalla, remember?_ He thought. _This must be Helheim. But still… this is just a cave._ Then, it dawned on him: _The prison caves._

Yes, he was not dead; good news perhaps, but not enough for him to cheer. After all, he had been thrown into one of the cells built in the intricate network of caves beneath the village. Such cells were rarely used, for Berk didn’t hold prisoners very often, nor did Berkians keep slaves. Yet, here he was, a prisoner in his own village.

His head was throbbing, and it wasn’t long before he managed to remember why. He quickly recalled everything that had happened. Astrid, the arena, the Monstrous Nightmare, the painful knock of his skull on the floor, and then a Night Fury…

“Tooth- ... _less!_ ” He grunted, his voice hoarse. “Toothless!” He finally managed to yell, and he could hear the shout travel through the tunnels and back. The surge of panic in his chest enabled his body, and he crawled towards the iron bars that kept him captive. He shook them fiercely in and out, but had been locked in.

“Little Hiccup?” A man’s voice suddenly answered Hiccup’s call. It was gentler and milder than most manly voices on Berk, but Hiccup still failed to recognize its source, until Bucket appeared from the passage of the tunnel that connected the prison cells to the rest of the caves.

Bucket was a very peculiar person in the village, to say the least of it. Blond-haired and muscular, not only was he one of the tallest Vikings to have ever held an axe, he was also one of the most naturally talented fighters, despite, rumour had it, having lost half of his brain in an accident, along with the more common left hand. That was the reason why the man always wore an iron bucket on his head, or so people said: _'to keep the other half of his brain from falling out.'_

No one knew for sure. The certain thing was that the man happened to be somewhat dim-witted, and had a rather limited vocabulary, even by sheepherders’ standards. In fact, Bucket was notoriously easy to fool. His unfortunate reputation was not aided by his far too gentle and caring manners, and his uncanny artistic ability for painting shields. And yet, in spite of such reputation, the man had been tasked to guard to the one, lone prisoner. Nonetheless, Hiccup did not consider making use of the man’s mental weakness to escape. There was nowhere for him to go without his dragon-friend.

“Bucket! Where’s Toothless?” Hiccup asked hastily, fighting the dreadful feeling in his stomach.

The tall man stared at him with a preoccupied look. “What is less?”

“The dragon! The Night Fury. What-”

“Oooh!” Bucket cut in eagerly. “The Night Fury came! It was scary black! Ya should ‘ave seen!”

“I _know_ ,” Hiccup shot back impatiently, “I was _there_. Now where is it? What happened to it?!” Hiccup was sure he couldn’t have been given a more unfortunate guard. Having a conversation with Bucket was a gruelling task.

“The Night Fury came…” Bucket said, then froze in thought for a few endless moments, “beat up the Nightmare… Then, they chained the Night Fury. Oh, yes! They took the Night Fury in bigger cells below! It was so exciting! But scary! Did you not see?”

Hiccup sighed deeply with a mixture of exasperation and relief. At least Toothless had not been killed yet; some more good news, but again not enough to calm his mind. He’d have much rather liked Toothless to have escaped unscathed, though it was already a miracle that, from the entirety of the Berkian population, no axes had hit the target. The most likely explanation was that everyone believed the honor to kill the rare beast belonged solely to the chief, or some immediate relative.

“No, Bucket, I couldn’t see. I was unconscious. Anything else? What’s happening outside? Where is everyone?”

Bucket hummed thoughtfully, then froze once more. Hiccup realized he had asked too many questions at once; the poor dolt had a hard time processing information.

“Chief Stoick,” Bucket began slowly, “he is meeting with the council. He said he will come after… Is something wrong little Hiccup?” Despite the limited brain faculties, Bucket’s gentle eyes had picked up on Hiccup’s immediate expression of dread at the mention of his father.

“No, it’s fine. Go back to your post.” Hiccup sighed again, and Bucket trotted back happily towards the main gate, further down the corridor. Hiccup finally sat down on the cold floor, and began to contemplate how badly he had screwed everything up. Even by his most optimistic calculations, his future looked grim. He wished he could go back to being unconscious, but he didn’t want to damage his brain any further. No matter how bad things were, he didn’t want to end up like Bucket. After all, his head was already throbbing painfully, and the hair at the back of his skull was still slightly wet with blood.

Hiccup tried to calm himself as he waited. Time passed slowly. Daylight began to fade into a dimmer blue hue, and though his cell became darker, he could not sleep. His heart wouldn’t stop punching his chest angrily at the thought of what was to come. On the one side, he wanted it to be over quickly, but on the other, he didn’t want to face his father. When a sound of steps signalled the chief’s arrival, Hiccup was left with no choice but to clench his fists and open his eyes. His gut cramped with dread, and his heart was in his throat when he looked up.

Stoick was angry. It wasn’t easy to tell sometimes; the huge man looked that way almost every day of the week. As his son however, Hiccup had learnt to read his facial expressions well, and the man that stood before him today was exceptionally, and utterly enraged. Hiccup wasn’t usually afraid of his father, the man had never physically hurt him, at least not intentionally, but this time, Hiccup was somewhat glad to be inside a sturdy cell. It felt safer, if only a little.

“Get up,” Stoick said, his voice curt.

Hiccup complied, quickly averting his eyes from his father’s dour glare across the iron bars. He feared what he was going to see on the man’s face. Disappointment, he was quite used to. This time, however, Hiccup had delved into uncharted territory. In fact, he could no longer sense his father behind that glare. Before him now stood only the mighty chief of Berk, stripped of all lenience, confronting a traitor. He was just as terrifying as the stories about him suggested.

“So, I guess everything in your dragon fights has been a trick,” the man said. “It was all a _lie,_ ” he hissed through gritted teeth. Though his voice was steady, there was spite in every word.

Hiccup did not respond. He waited in silence, fearful for his and Toothless’ future.

“I spoke with the Hofferson girl, Astrid.” Stoick paused, expecting some reaction perhaps. “I understand you befriended and harboured an enemy of the tribe, probably the deadliest of them all. Do you deny it?”

Hiccup did not speak or move. He kept his eyes firmly on the floor.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” His father continued.

When Hiccup said nothing, Stoick replied to his own question with grim clarity: “Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third,” he began.

Hiccup had never heard his father address him with his full title, and his heart skipped a few too many beats in his chest.

“Under normal circumstances, your sentence should be that of a lifetime in exile. _But,_ ” Stoick paused to breathe and sigh, “after a heated discussion with the council, it has been agreed that, as future heir to the Hooligan Tribe, you should be spared banishment. So, for the sake of your mother’s memory Hiccup, I’m going to give you one _last_ chance.”

Hiccup had stopped breathing, surprised at how long it was taking for the shouts to begin. It didn’t usually take so long, and that worsened his worry. Most worrisome of all, Stoick had just mentioned his late wife; a topic that, Hiccup knew all too well, his father _never_ brought up.

“You will spend the night in this prison to atone for your betrayal, and, in the morning, we will hold a trial with all of Berk as witness. In the arena, you will kill the Night Fury yourself, proving that you are _not_ a traitor, and finally earning your status as _true_ Viking. You will then directly apologize to all members of the council and to the whole village for this grave... _misunderstanding_. For that’s what it will be considered from now on. Astrid promised me not to speak to anyone else of what happened in the forest, so you get off more lightly than you deserve.”

“Is everything I said clear?” Stoick finally asked. The man’s voice was a mixture between imperious and preoccupied.

_‘Kill the Night Fury.’_ The words echoed in Hiccup’s mind. This could not be happening, yet the constant throbbing in his head dispelled the hope that this was all a bad dream. A nightmare so dreadful, even his own extravagant mind would have been unable to hatch.

_He wants me to kill Toothless?!_

“ _No_...” Hiccup murmured at first. “ _No, no, no!_ Dad, I can’t! _Please!_ I beg you! I messed up. I should have told you, I know, but he’s my friend!”

“The dragon?! A _friend?!_ ” Stoick was finally shouting. “Gods help us… Trust me Hiccup, if you weren’t my only son, I would be punching your sick ideas about associating with those mindless beasts _out_ of your head! Of all the irresponsible things you-”

“They are not mindless beasts!” Hiccup managed to interject in a fit of panic. “If I tell Toothless something, he can understand me! I can show you! He even came to protect me! Please, dad, just give him a chance!” Hiccup’s hands had gripped the iron bars that separated them.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Even dogs can understand and obey if trained, but they don’t attack our village in mass, stealing our food, burning our houses, _killing_ our families! All these things are going to become _your_ responsibility one day! Do you not realize this is a war?! What are you going to do? Will you side with them? Will you have your people starve by offering the fruits of their hard work to them each year? Are you so willing to lovingly pet one of the beasts that killed your _mother?!_ ”

Hiccup opened his mouth, but he quickly realized he didn’t have any ready answers for his father. Was what he had done _that_ wrong? Were his actions an insult to his mother’s memory? Was he really a traitor? Hiccup had pointedly avoided thinking about the war all this time. He had always preferred to forget all about it as soon as the raids stopped in the fall. He suddenly realized how foolish he had been.

Maybe, Hiccup thought, he could promise to stop the war by befriending _every_ dragon like he had Toothless. Would his father believe him? Was it even possible? Hiccup was sure he could tame the few captive dragons in the arena, for he had almost done it already when fighting them. But, all of them? Was his father going to at least listen to _that_ kind of proposal?

Hiccup quickly recalled the man’s face that very morning in the arena, and the answer became obvious. It was no use. Possible or not, Stoick would not allow it. The only thing left for Hiccup to do was try to protect his precious friend. After all, Toothless did not deserve to die. It was not fair. The Night Fury was no longer a danger. Hiccup _had_ to save him; he just didn’t know how.

Shamefaced, wet-eyed, and with his sense of hope hanging by a thread, Hiccup looked at his feet. “But Toothless is a good dragon,” he murmured, sniffing.

Stoick groaned, but before he could speak, Hiccup carried on, pursing his bottom lip to suppress the trembling of his jaw.

“Dad, please. If you ever cared for me, at all, the way a father cares for a son, then let me go away with Toothless. I- I’m fine with exile. You’ll never have to see me again; we’ll leave Berk, and never come back. I promise! Just don’t hurt him!” He felt a few warm tears run down his cheeks as he spoke.

Hiccup wasn’t used to grovelling, he had always faced his scoldings with calm wit and sarcasm, but he had never had much to lose before. With his only friend’s life on the line however, he was desperate. To make matters worse, his head was pounding with pain.

“No,” Stoick the Vast said flatly. “Here’s what’s going to happen. If you don’t want me to tie you to a mast and sail you off to Thor-knows-where, to rot till the end of your days, then you will _kill_ that dragon tomorrow, you’ll _keep_ your ass on Berk, and do your fucking duty, FOR ONCE IN YOUR FUCKING LIFE!”

Stoick waited for the echo of his shouts to die down, before adding: “And then, we’ll never speak of this again.”

Hiccup fell on his knees, crying profusely; his shaky hands still held a grip on the bars of his cell. With the last of his hope crushed by his father’s words, he could no longer fend off the misery he felt. Between sobs, he only managed to breathlessly whisper: “Please… p-pleaaase…”

“This is my final word.” With that, Stoick ended the argument, as was his usual fashion, and stomped his way out.

Ignoring his injury, Hiccup hammered his head against the railing, hoping the pain would replace his grief with anger. It worked for a time, giving his heart a sense of relief. However, when he soon realized his anger was actually targeted at none other than himself, Hiccup broke down, wailing hopelessly, his forehead wedged between the two iron bars, which he was still clutching in his hands. Hiccuping spasms started to punctuate his weeping, echoing in the cave’s corridors.

It was a long while before Hiccup became too tired to cry. By the time the tears stopped, his eyes had gotten red and puffy, his nose runny and messy, and his body depleted of all strength. Hiccup lay on the cold floor with a sickly moan. He shivered, turning his empty gaze towards the same dark wall that had welcomed him at the eve of this dreadful nightmare.

_It’s all my fault. Why couldn’t I just kill him when I found him in the woods?_

Such thoughts began to plague his mind. He resumed counting his blunders of the day, like he often did; a habit induced by his father’s frequent rebukes. For once, being good with numbers was proving to be quite bad for his self esteem. The result was disheartening. His whole day had been full of careless, avoidable mistakes. Most gravely, he had let Astrid catch up to him on dragonback, and on a Night Fury at that. His clumsiness had finally prompted his greatest failure. It was to be expected, for he always screwed up, endangering those around him and himself. Essentially, he thought, his whole life had been a screw-up.

_A_ _hiccup_.

He puffed out a weak chuckle at the irony of it. He had befriended his own enemy. He had then doomed that only friend of his, all the while betraying his own people. Maybe he just secretly hated himself, and harboured an unconscious death wish. Hiccup had never seriously considered taking his own life, though there had been days when he had vaguely contemplated the scary notion. However, he was surprised to find that this day wasn’t one of them.

He felt helpless, yet, somehow, he found himself unable to let go and plunge into total despair. After crying like he never had before, Hiccup couldn’t help feeling surprisingly determined. Though very aware of his imminent fate, there was still an anchor to his sanity, a responsibility, and it was most likely lying in a cage much like his own, in the deeper caves below. It made things suddenly clear in his mind, simple.

He was not going to take the Toothless’ life to save his own. He had already betrayed his village, he was not going to betray his only friend as well. He was going to face exile, he decided, and, inexperienced as he was, it was probably going to kill him. He accepted it, and found solace in the idea that, in a way, he and Toothless were both going to die together.

_Unless some god decides to intervene,_ Hiccup thought. _Loki? Might you be the one? A traitor could use your help here..._

With feebly renewed strength, Hiccup sat up, and crawled beside the entrance of his cell, where someone had left two buckets. One was made of iron, and it was empty, the other wooden, and filled with water. Another shiver slid down Hiccup’s spine when he dipped his hands inside the second one, cupping the cool water in his palms. He drank greedily, realizing how thirsty he was. He then washed the dried tears off his face, and wiped himself with the front of his green tunic.

Hiccup finally decided to sit by the darkest corner of his cell, with his forehead on his knees and his hands in his hair, his back touching the cold, damp wall. He tried to curl into the smallest ball he could, so, with any luck, he’d manage to implode, and disappear from the world, as if he had never existed. The thought gave him some temporary comfort as he waited.

It wasn’t long, before Hiccup could hear steps again, lighter this time. He looked up, resting his chin on his knees, expecting to see anyone but her.

Astrid was standing outside his cell. Her armor had been recovered, much to Hiccup’s disappointment, and her arms were folded sternly under the still developing curves of her chest. Nonetheless, her expression was a new one, less aggressive perhaps, and more... sympathetic? Was she pitying him?

_Now?! After what she did to me?_

She did look troubled, as if hoping for _him_ to initiate the conversation. There was no way that was going to happen. Hiccup only looked at her, trying to scowl, but probably failing.

“I’m sorry for what I did, alright?” Astrid blurted out in a single breath. The apology surprised Hiccup considerably; the following statements however not so much: “I was angry because I realized you cheated to beat me, but I don’t care about that anymore. Still, you must understand that I did the right thing. It’s for the best, even for you. The chief has given you another chance. You can prove yourself again by killing that Night Fury. Hiccup, you _should_ be grateful.”

_Grateful?! And here I thought she would offer an actual apology. That’s Astrid for you: proud and arrogant… and damn beautiful too, even when clad in metal. What is wrong with me…?_

Hiccup frowned, both at himself and at her words, before giving his matter-of-fact response: “I’d much rather be exiled than harm Toothless.”

He wanted to blame her for everything. He wanted to yell at her, to make her feel guilty. But, he couldn’t bring himself to do any of that, no matter how hard he wished to hate her that day.

“I know it’s almost summer Hiccup,” she continued, ignoring his words, “but even so, exile alone… You could die out there!” She sounded sincerely concerned, which only aggravated Hiccup.

“Then I’ll do just that,” he answered curtly.

“Hiccup, be reasonable. It’s a _dragon_. A Night Fury, but still a dragon.”

“Go away Astrid.” Hiccup breathed out, almost pleadingly. He knew where the conversation was going.

“If not for your own sake, do it for the village. You have a responsibility as heir. If the chief’s only son is banished, it could damage Berk! What if that muttonhead Snotlout becomes chief?” Astrid asked. She was relentless, she wasn’t going to leave him in peace, and Hiccup was not in the mood for it now. Although he had secretly enjoyed having her yell or scowl at him sometimes (after all, being noticed by Astrid, even in a negative way, was always considered an honor by any of the boys), this was not one of those times. Not with his only friend’s life on the line, and the prospect of death by exile for himself.

_Who let her in? Where is Bucket when you need him?_ Hiccup wondered, then drily answered the girl: “I don’t see how that’s _my_ problem.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” he shot back. “Nobody even listened to what I said in the arena today. Suddenly, I was no more than a traitor. And you might have forgotten, but for years everyone treated me like I was some freak of nature. I had to _cheat_ to get some shred of respect! Nobody was going to care about me otherwise! Not that I minded at that point, but why should I now care for a village that has never cared for who I really am?”

“Ne- never _cared?!_ ” Astrid bellowed with outrage. “You are the chief’s son! You’ve always had the best food, house, clothing... _everything!_ You even have your own room! Even at the forge! You spoiled little…” She grunted. “And what about all the times your stupid inventions destroyed other people’s stuff? You never had to pay for it yourself! You just had to apologize. And despite all that, you are still next in line for chiefdom, for Thor’s sake! You’ve always had it the easiest of us all! Now you also want a dragon-pet?! Give me a break!”

“Toothless is not a pet!” Hiccup barked. “He is my _friend!_ ”

Astrid squinted, dumbfounded. She was apparently incapable of digesting that notion. “A _friend?!_ Gods, Hiccup, did you hit your head?!”

“I _did_ hit my head, actually.” He admitted, reaching with one hand at the back of his skull to search for the injury beneath his hair, and check if it was still bleeding.

“Don’t try to be funny, Hiccup!”

“What’s funny about hitting one’s head?” Hiccup was exasperated, and, as it often happened, flippancy was his only available weapon. There was no other way for him to deal with crazed, yelling Vikings. Brawling was not an option, and yelling could only take him so far, no thanks to his still too childish voice.

“ _Ugh!_ ” Astrid grunted again. “You are impossible! You are willing to betray your own home, and face exile just to save a hideous monster that’s going to die anyway!”

Listening to her insulting Toothless made Hiccup momentarily forget this was Astrid Hofferson he was talking to; _the_ Astrid that made his heartbeat double. Awkwardly, without raising his voice, but hoping to convey contempt with as much vinegar as he could muster, Hiccup growled: “Piss off, Astrid.”

At that, the girl halted, looking astonished, and, maybe, even a little hurt. Swearing was not at all a habit of the mild young boy. The words felt strange in his mouth, but they gave him an uneasy, yet satisfactory feeling. His outburst had also the pleasant effect of shutting Astrid up for good.

The silence didn’t last. A metallic rattling announced the arrival of somebody else from the main gate.

_Oh, great. More visitors._

“There’s no use talking to this lunatic,” Astrid’s grumbled, sounding fazed and frustrated as she made her way towards the exit.

Hiccup’s eyes followed her, understanding she was talking to the person approaching from the gate. He then saw Fishlegs, who stepped warily in front of his cell, while Astrid left the prison caves, slamming the rusty iron bars behind her. Fishlegs jumped at the sound, before noticing the prisoner.

“Hi, Hiccup.”

“Hey, Fishlegs,” Hiccup answered without as much enthusiasm, before lowering his forehead to his knees. “Have you come to lecture me too?”

“No, I... I just wanted to talk.”

Hiccup raised his head again with a distrustful look. “You’ve barely talked to me for years,” he complained. After his outburst with Astrid, yelling at others seemed so much easier. And, no matter how unfair it felt in Fishlegs’ case, it still gave him that strange sense of satisfaction. “Before I became good in the arena, you kept avoiding me like some disease-ridden beast so you could be friends with Snotlout and the others! What could we possibly have to say _now?_ ”

“Yeah…” Fishlegs mumbled, “sorry about that, I-”

“Look,” Hiccup cut in, “I’m not in the mood. Leave me alone.”

“I just need to ask you a few questions.”

Hiccup’s eyes widened incredulously. Was that why Fishlegs had finally found the courage to talk to him alone? Was Hiccup some kind of freak-show? An exotic beast, caged and put on display for the crowds to admire with curiosity and disgust?

“Oh, so it’s interrogation time,” Hiccup said bitingly. “How _nice._ ‘ _Say, Fishlegs, how should we torture our prisoner?’ ‘Oh I don’t know Tuffnut. Maybe we should have Snotlout punch him in the stomach. Maybe get Ruffnut to set his hair on fire. Or, we can just throw him in the freezing river on his birthday. Yes! That will make him talk! So then he will finally tell us why he BETRAYED THE VILLAGE!”_

Hiccup screamed the last few words, producing a loud echo in the cavernous prison. He regretted it immediately, when his bruised head started to throb painfully again.

Hiccup’s theatrics did not deter Fishlegs for long. After a rather awkward silence, the large kid said: “I’m sorry, but...” he looked once again at his surroundings, as if to make sure they were actually alone. “I just _need_ to know: how did you tame the Night Fury? Can you tame other dragons? Can you tell it when to fire? How did you do it? Does it really let you fly on it?”

Hiccup sighed the last remnants of his anger away. He no longer had the energy for it. “So you heard, huh?” He asked back, when he realized that Fishlegs too, much like Astrid, a proper Viking, was going to be relentless.

“I… kinda. People are talking.”

Hiccup sighed again. There was a look of expectant wonder in Fishlegs’ eyes, which made Hiccup feel slightly warmer towards the husky blond youth. Fishlegs seemed interested in the dragon, more than the actual betrayal of their Viking laws. Nonetheless, Hiccup was in no mood to narrate his story. The experience was one he had shared with his best friend, and, despite Fishlegs being by far the least callous of his peers, Hiccup didn’t feel like opening up to him. He was still one of them. He didn’t deserve to know.

“Why do you even care?” Hiccup asked dismissively.

“Come on, Hiccup, I need to know! There’s no such thing in Bork's Book of Dragons. You have to tell me! _Please!_ ”

Hiccup studied Fishlegs’ eyes. The excitement in the large boy’s voice made him wonder if he had actually misunderstood him. Fishlegs had always been curious about dragons, and always the avid student of dragon-facts, but everyone thought that his scholarly approach to the subject had still the very Viking purpose of making a better dragon killer. Now, Hiccup began to suspect that Fishlegs was actually interested in the creatures themselves. Maybe he had some redeeming qualities after all.

A faint glimmer of hope nested itself deep within Hiccup’s mind, but the circumstances made it stay unnoticed. Hiccup was still in a prison cell, trapped, hated, waiting to attend his best friend’s execution, and then be banished forever.

“You don’t need to know, Fishlegs.” Hiccup said, “As you can see, it doesn’t end well for those who do.” He gestured to his own small figure in the shadows, before hugging his legs to his chest as before.

The abrupt metallic clashing of the main gate startled the bigger kid for a second time. Torchlight filled the darkness of the corridor.

Fishlegs was not supposed to be there, and, now, he had been caught.


	5. Caged

**(Hiccup)**

 

“Fishlegs Ingerman!” The voice of Gobber the Belch thundered in the tunnels.

The large boy jumped, sputtering: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry... I-”

“Who let ya in?” The man asked imperiously.

“N-no one?” Fishlegs stuttered in response, his face a reflection of worry and shame. He was not the kind of boy who enjoyed getting in trouble. In fact, Fishlegs was probably the most obedient of all the youths on Berk, something that would have made him the main target of mockery among the kids, were it not for his size, and for the fact that Hiccup was there.

“Then get out of ‘ere before I tell the chief!” The blacksmith shouted. There was no anger in his voice. It was clear that he was only trying to scare the boy. He succeeded easily.

Fishlegs ran out like a frightened, overweight rabbit, blurting a hasty “Yes! Thank you!” that Hiccup would have found comical in any other situation.

With Fishlegs gone, Gobber stepped in front of Hiccup’s cell, ignoring the prisoner, whilst muttering to himself: “Damn Bucket. I told him again and again, it’s not troll season yet.”

The blacksmith sighed. He laid a cloth-covered bowl on the floor, then diligently lit another torch, which he had been carrying under his armpit, before carefully placing both of them in the holders on each side of the cell, warming the cave with firelight. The man finally turned his attention to his young apprentice.

Hiccup averted his eyes from his mentor, ashamed. How was he supposed to confront the man after lying to his face?

“So,” Gobber said. He sat down, crossing his one leg with his wooden stump. He put his good hand on his side and scratched his shaved chin with his hook. “I’m kind of disappointed, I must say. I mean, there I was, thinking ya were on some hill, finally giving Astrid a green gown...”

Hiccup frowned cluelessly.

“Ya know: sheathing the sword till it melts. Burying the bone in the forest. Giving the beast a second back…”

Hiccup finally flushed, picturing the true meaning behind the blacksmith’s words.

 “And what do I hear? Ya’re in the woods, mounting an _actual_ beast instead!” He chuckled heartily. “A Night Fury too! Who would’ve thought, aye?”

Hiccup wanted to scowl at the tease, but, for once, replied to the man with a relieved smile. He was grateful to see that Gobber was willing make dirty jokes in this situation. The blacksmith could take nothing too seriously, and that always made Hiccup feel at ease around him.

“Although…” the large man continued, “I’m not sure which of the two ’s more dangerous: Astrid, or the _offspring of lightning and death itself?_ ”

Hiccup found the courage to speak. “I think I know the answer to that one,” he muttered.

They both laughed, though Hiccup’s strained attempt at a chuckle was much more short-lived.

A heavy silence fell between them. Then, Hiccup decided to speak again: “So, aren’t you going to scold me or anything?”

“Scold ya?” Gobber replied casually. “I only do it when ya mess up my forge, when ya leave my hammers out of place, when ya don’t wash the whetstones after use, when ya take my good steel to make springs for yer contraptions, when ya-”

“Alright, I get it!” Hiccup cut in.

Gobber sighed. “No, scolding ain’t my job here, lad,” he finally admitted.

“Are you just here to replace Bucket?”

“Aye, I’ll have to look into that. Who knows where he’s wandered off again,” the blacksmith considered. “But, no. For now, I just came to bring yer food, and see if ya need anything.”

“Oh,” Hiccup shifted awkwardly. “In that case… Uhhh... Can I… Can I go to the outhouse? I’ve been here since noon.”

“Ya mean get out?” Gobber asked. “Unfamiliar with captivity, aye? Sorry lad. Can’t let ya out. Chief’s orders. Besides, if we were always to take each prisoner in shackles to the privy, it would be a full-time job.”

“But there are no other prisoners!” Hiccup complained. “And I _really_ have to… you know…” he only murmured the last few words, but his voice trailed off anyway.

“So what? Ya’ve got yer outhouse right there,” the man said, gesturing to a place beside the entrance of the cell.

“What? _Where?_ ” Hiccup asked with a grimace, looking for an unseen door perhaps. Could he have missed it? Of course not, there was nothing around him but stone walls and iron bars.

“The _bucket_.” Gobber said matter-of-factly, raising the arm that still had fingers, and pointing towards the floor, where the two buckets lay; one wooden and filled with water, from which Hiccup had drunk moments before, the other empty and made of iron. “The iron one,” the blacksmith added. “Easier to clean, ya see.”

“What...” Hiccup murmured, beginning to understand.

Gobber offered him only an obvious look, implying what any prisoner would have probably already figured out, or any other villager for that matter, who couldn’t contemplate luxuries and privacy such as those afforded by a chief’s overly-sheltered first son.

“ _Here?!_ Oh, _come on,_ ” Hiccup moaned.

“Consider yerself lucky. Have I told ya about the time I was caught by Outcasts for five days?” The blacksmith asked the question with an eager twinkle in his eye, which usually signaled the beginning of one of his colorful stories, and there had been plenty of those when they worked at the forge. In fact, Hiccup had heard that particularly disgusting story far too many times for his liking. When a few images began forming in his head, he decided to accept the offer, preventing the man from recounting his unsavory experience.

“Alright, _fine,_ ” Hiccup said hastily. He grabbed the bucket from the handle, before retreating to the darker corner of his cage. The blacksmith just sat there, waiting.

“Uhmm…” Hiccup began to speak, but hoped he needn’t continue.

“What?”

“Could you… you know... turn around?”

The man looked confused for a moment. Then, he understood, and grinned. “Shy, are ya?” He asked teasingly.

“I’m not _shy,_ ” Hiccup almost squealed; it sounded like blatant denial, and it was.

“No? Then what are ya hiding?” Gobber asked with a lopsided smirk.

“ _Nothing._ I just… can’t… if someone’s looking.”

Hiccup only whispered the last few words in a half-hearted attempt not to reveal this embarrassingly strange affliction of his; he was already strange enough. Still, he preferred revealing _this_ , rather than admitting he was, in fact, extremely shy, a trait considered unworthy of a man, particularly among the brave, bold Vikings of the Hairy Hooligan tribe.

“Huh,” the blacksmith said, but complied with his apprentice’s request, and turned around to face the tunnel’s wall. “So… no particular fierce maiden’s bite marks on yer prick?”

“ _Gobber!_ ” Hiccup whined. His burning ears meant he still wasn’t used to his mentor’s crude humor after all, especially when private areas were concerned, or girls. All topics with which Hiccup was respectively very uncomfortable, and shamefully unfamiliar, even for his age.

“Fine. Fine. Just torturing the prisoner a little. That’s what prison’s all about, isn’t it?” The blacksmith admitted. “In fact, have I ever told ya about that time when me and yer father were taken by-”

“Gobber!” Hiccup protested again, this time more firmly. “Can you please stop talking!?”

“Oh. Right, right. _Sorry_ ,” Gobber pouted jokingly. Then, as if obeying an order, he added: “Shutting up.”

It took quite a while before Hiccup could relax enough to relieve his bursting bladder. When he was done, he left the makeshift chamber-pot on the farthest side of his cell, and moved to the opposite side, fighting back the feeling of humiliation. He was willing to bet that it had been his father’s plan all along to make him feel that way, by locking him in the prison.

Hiccup finally resumed his sitting position, with his back on the wall and his fingers nested between his auburn locks. He exhaled heavily.

“I can’t do it, Gobber.”

“What? _Still?_ Ya need me to leave?”

“Not _that!_ I mean I can’t kill Toothless. I know it sounds crazy, but he really is my friend. What am I going to do?”

Still sitting, the blacksmith spun around to face him, and grabbed the cloth-covered bowl that was lying on the ground. “Well, ya could start by eating something,” he said, pushing the bowl towards the prisoner through an opening in the iron bars by the floor. “Bread, and _two_ slices of dried meat.”

Hiccup considered the food. His mind had no appetite, but his stomach disagreed, grumbling. “That’s what we feed prisoners? I guess I’ve been a prisoner my whole life then. Makes sense.”

After dipping it in the water to soften it, Hiccup began with a few small bites of meat, afraid he was going to be sick from sheer distress.

“The food’s the same as home, I guess,” Gobber pointed out, “but here ya ain’t free to do as ya please.”

“Sounds just like home to me,” Hiccup grumbled as he attempted to rip a piece of hard meat with a frustrated bite, holding onto the sliver with both hands.

“Listen, Hiccup. I know it may not look like it, I know ya may not believe it, but ya have to understand, yer father really cares for ya.” The blacksmith was clearly trying his best to sound comforting.

“You are right,” Hiccup swallowed, “I _don’t_ believe that. In fact, it can’t be true. Not after what he said. Not when you’ve been a better father to me than he ever was.” He confessed this in anger, yet it hurt to realize how true the statement felt.

“ _Me?_ ” Gobber sounded surprised. Hiccup could have sworn he saw his mentor’s cheeks flush; it was a rare sight. “No, I don’t think so, lad. I’m no _father_ material.” The man chuckled uneasily.

“Why not? I'm sure you'd make a great dad,” Hiccup said.

Hiccup had never questioned his mentor’s lack of family before. In fact, he had never given it any thought, perhaps because he had always liked to consider himself as the only member of Gobber’s family. Selfish as it was, Hiccup had never liked to contemplate the idea of Gobber having another home somewhere else, a home he couldn’t be part of. After all, the forge had always been where Hiccup felt most at home, at least before he had met Toothless.

“I never asked you this, but why didn’t you ever marry? I mean, you are…” Hiccup looked up, searching for an appropriate attribute for the man. He finally settled on “strong,” which was incredibly true, even with a missing arm and leg. He would have said handsome, but that was too much of a stretch for a crippled man with an oversized steel tooth. Luckily for Gobber, being handsome was not an important prerequisite for drawing a Viking woman’s attention. As far as Hiccup knew, strength and valiance were the only fundamental conditions necessary for getting a girlfriend on Berk. An achievement the scrawny little Hiccup could only dream of, and very often did.

The blacksmith took a deep breath, then hummed absently. “Well… not many people know, but I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell ya now, right? Considering...” It seemed as if he was talking to himself.

Hiccup’s sudden curiosity grew, and he abandoned his tasteless meal. “What do you mean?”

“How can I put this...” Gobber began. “I ain’t the ‘marrying kind’, ya know?”

Hiccup gave him only a puzzled look, so Gobber tried again.

“Well, not everyone’s axe swings the same way... if ya catch my drift.”

“What are you talking about?” Hiccup asked, trying to decipher yet another one of Gobber’s euphemisms. Realization came quickly afterwards. “Wait. You mean…” He considered the words again.

“Oh... Oooh!” Hiccup felt his heart skip at the sudden revelation. Not that he held any prejudice on such matters of intimacy, but this had never crossed his mind before. People talked about this sort of thing, often not in good way, but Hiccup had never had to consider it as real, up until today. Yet, it all made sense now.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He couldn’t tell why he was sorry. Perhaps because he had been oblivious all this time. Still, when the blacksmith asked: “What are _you_ sorry for?” Hiccup only mumbled timidly, scratching his cheek: “No- nothing, I guess. It’s just... I didn’t know. Must be hard.”

“Not as hard as being a dragon lover, I can tell ya that.” Gobber pointed out in jest.

Hiccup exhaled a sarcastic chuckle at the blacksmith’s zinger. Gobber was a Viking; of course he did not appreciate being pitied. Still, only Gobber could have used _that_ as an occasion to make light of the situation, just for the sake of improving Hiccup’s mood.

“Thank you, Gobber. For trusting me.”

“ _Eh,_ ” Gobber shrugged. “It’s not like ya’ll tell anyone else.”

“I could tell Toothless,” Hiccup noted jokingly, “but he can’t speak, so your secret's safe with him. Maybe he can tell the other dragons. Who knows, he could even find a nice dragon-partner for you too. How about an attractive Gronckle?”

Gobber dismissed the humorous proposition with a casual wave of his good hand. “Nah. I’d rather not give the lizards _even more_ parts of my handsome young body. They’ve had enough of me already.” He raised his missing leg and arm. Dragons had bitten off both limbs during past raids.

Hiccup’s mirth vanished immediately, and he once again lost the courage to look at his mentor’s eyes. “You must really hate me for becoming friends with one of them.”

Gobber took some time to think, gazing at the cavernous ceiling. “That depends,” he finally said. He became suddenly very serious as he asked the question: “Do you regret doing it?”

Without so much as a faint vocal shift, the man’s presence had transformed. It now was… intimidating. Hiccup found himself under some unexpected pressure as he considered the question. Even if his conscience knew that, by all Viking standards, he had to rue his actions, he actually found he didn’t. He really didn’t. He couldn’t possibly regret flying, and he could never regret meeting his first true friend, but he didn’t have the heart nor the guts to tell his mentor, who had lost so much to those creatures.

Hiccup’s long, troubled silence replied in his stead.

“Then it’s fine,” Gobber conceded proudly.

“What?”

“Gotta respect a man that stands by what he does. It’s a fine way to live, ya know: without regrets.” The intimidating tone, which Hiccup had never thought his mentor capable of, had dissipated, and was already becoming just a feeble, uncertain memory. Hiccup, however, was still too bewildered by such quick acceptance.

“But… but-” he mumbled.

“No buts,” the man interjected. “If ya still stand by what ya did, then I won’t hold it against ya. Ya might even be onto something about what ya said in the arena, about some dragons being better than others and whatnot. I don’t know about such things. I don’t know the reason for this war, or why the dragons raid us. I’m sure they have their motives, just as we have ours. No one remembers where it all began. Maybe one day we can stop fighting like ya said, but I’m just a simple blacksmith, Hiccup. Complicated explanations for the ways of the world, I’d much rather leave to skinny toothpicks with smart mouths.” Gobber smiled gently.

Hiccup was so heartened by his mentor’s trusting words, that he could feel the sting of tears in his eyes. He fought them back with a timid smile of his own as the blacksmith went on:

“So, maybe ya can’t lift a hammer, or carry an axe, or throw a bola, but whatever happens tomorrow, keep fighting yer fight, Hiccup; even in yer weird, _Hiccupy_ way.”

“I- I’ll try. But, without Toothless...” Hiccup wanted to cry again as he spoke. Even if he had been urged to live on, without his scaly friend, it all felt meaningless. “I was actually planning on leaving with him today, you know? I even prepared a basket with all my stuff. You can have it if you want. I guess it’s still in the forest border, towards Raven Point, where I told Toothless to wait for me. I don’t know if dad will let me take anything with me anyway,” a sigh of resignation escaped him, “when I’m banished tomorrow.”

Gobber studied Hiccup’s face. “So ya’re not goin’ to do it. Ya won’t kill it.”

“No.”

“Even if it would keep ya on Berk? Even if someone else kills it anyway?”

“In the name of all the gods, I’m not going to be the person who kills Toothless. I’ll never betray him.” Hiccup tried to sound somewhat solemn with his vow. He thought he had failed, but he had meant the words nonetheless.

“Ya truly care for that Night Fury.”

Hiccup nodded.

“Ya sure the beast cares for ya as well?”

“I think so,” Hiccup answered. “Yes. You saw it too; he came to save me in the arena. But still, he can’t fly without my help, so even if he doesn’t care for me, he needs me.” As he spoke, he realized how glad he was to have such a connection with someone, even if that someone was a dragon.

“Ah yes, the tail-fin. Should ‘ave known.” Gobber nodded to himself. “Fine work, by the way. Nobody else seemed to notice it. Very Hiccup-like. Guess yer weird toys have some use after all.”

Hiccup smiled at the first actual compliment on his original smithing work.

“Well!” The blacksmith suddenly exclaimed, clapping his only hand on his thigh. “Time for me to go and let ya rest. Guess I’ve got things to prepare for the morrow.” He got up, but didn’t turn away immediately. Instead, he asked one last question: “Why ‘ _Toothless’?_ ”

“You mean his name?”

Gobber nodded.

Seeing the honest curiosity in his mentor’s eyes, Hiccup decided he deserved an explanation. “Because he retracts his teeth, when he smiles.”

Hiccup smiled himself at the mental image of the Night Fury’s toothless grin. “He does this funny face when he puts hih lips ang hih gums like thih ang…” He tried to imitate the dragon’s grin, stretching his lips with his fingers. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” He then asked, realizing how silly he must have looked.

Gobber only smiled at him, the way adults usually smile at children. Hiccup couldn’t figure out whether his interpretation of Toothless grinning was being mocked or appreciated, but he was glad for the affectionate gesture nonetheless.

“Goodnight Hiccup,” the blacksmith said. He left, walking out of the tunnel, and then the caves, leisurely singing all the while, as was his habit, one of Berk’s more unusual tunes:

 

_“Bork, oh Bork! We sing your song._

_The man who studied dragons long._

_Without your work, there’d be no Berk._

_We rue the day you went berserk…”_

 

The last echo of Gobber’s voice faded quickly. Hiccup expected no more visitors after that. Yet, he was sure he would be unable to shut his eyes that night, in that ugly, damp cage of his. He feared that the silence and solitude would rekindle his dread for the following morning. However, the exhaustion from that terrible day soon got the best of him, and Hiccup finally dropped into a restless, uneasy slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve assumed as canon for Gobber’s sexual preferences the kind inferred by most from his much-disputed remark in the second movie. I think, even retrospectively, it fits the character quite nicely.


	6. Flight

**(Gobber)**

 

It was an overcast morning, the sky concealed by a grey blanket of clouds; not an unusual sight on Berk. Fitful breaths of wind ruffled branches and leaves, whispering occasionally through the nooks and crevices of the steep sea-cliffs surrounding the village. A light drizzle dampened the muddy ground and, more importantly, everyone’s clothes; also not an unusual thing on Berk.

In fact, dry clothes were incredibly uncommon on the island. The weather of the northern Archipelago was rainy for most of the year, and, when it didn’t rain, it usually snowed. Thus, dry boots and breeches were, much like foods with actual taste, merely fantastic tales, brought by rare traders and even rarer travelers. Dreams from south of the Wicked Waters and from lands where dragons were but a myth.

Gobber the Belch expertly ignored the weather-induced discomfort, vaguely considering the summer storms that would soon follow, making everything even wetter. He tried to walk confidently towards the caves. He had done his best thinking in quite a while, after all.

_The rest is up to the gods_.

His plan had flaws, he was aware of it, but, then again, Gobber had never been a great planner; such ability was reserved to the chief of the village. The chief, however, his best friend, was obviously struggling with the current situation.

In fact, as great a chief as Stoick the Vast was, the man had often had difficulties when dealing with his own family, particularly his son. That’s when Gobber usually intervened. In general, the blacksmith’s help had always been appreciated by all parties involved. Today, he was not so sure his involvement would be welcome.

Stoick had never been unreasonably harsh with punishing his son before. However, what the young boy had just done had struck a particular nerve with the chief. Gobber had seen it in his eyes, and this led him to fear what his friend was going to do; most likely, something he was going to regret. Could Gobber stay idle before the current crisis?

He mulled over this issue as he stepped down the path carved in the cliff’s side, towards one of the large openings in the rock that led inside the caves. With a wooden stump for his left leg, he had to be careful not to slip and fall into the sea below. The passage was wide, but the blows of wind could get quite dangerous in certain spots of the crevice between the village and the arena, under the great wooden bridge.

He was accompanied by an escort of six. Four were tasked to join the Night Fury’s guards in the lower cells, and prepare the dragon for execution, the remaining two were to stay beside Gobber, to keep an eye on the human prisoner: Hiccup.

Gobber had tried to point out that the extra manpower was completely unnecessary, for Hiccup was too scrawny to successfully fight his way to freedom. In fact, he was probably going to be unable to run under the sole weight of his shackles. Yet, Stoick had insisted:

_‘All prisoners must be treated equally.’_

_Even when the prisoner is his own son, apparently,_ Gobber had thought. This was quite the inconvenience for Gobber, who was not going to be able to speak openly to Hiccup, with two more sets of ears on his back, while he delivered the boy his morning meal.

The Vikings reached the entrance. A large barred gate had been placed at the cave’s mouth, not so much to enhance security, which would be superfluous in an often-empty prison, but rather to prevent kids from wandering inside and getting lost. The gate was opened by Brunhilda Fjalardottir, an accomplished shield maiden, black of hair, with thighs like a yak and muscles that could put a Berserker to shame. She joined the group that was supposed to deal with the mysterious dragon, along with two more burly men led by Spitelout Jorgenson, who was young Snotlout’s father, and Stoick’s first cousin.

As the chief’s closest living relative, Spitelout was clearly very interested in all developments concerning Hiccup. In fact, if the young Haddock heir happened to disappear, by either exile or some other calamity, Spitelout’s son, Snotlout, would immediately become the most favored candidate for the future chiefdom. It was by no means a secret on Berk that such was the man’s silent aspiration. Of course, there were other valiant young men in the village, sons of relatively influential families, but none had blood-ties with the current chief as tight as the Jorgensons did. Nonetheless, treachery could not easily be contemplated, as long as the chief was one as powerful as Stoick the Vast, who had always been quite outspoken about his determination for making Hiccup take his place in the future, even before the boy’s unexpected successes during his training.

As the others descended into the deeper caves, lighting torches, Gobber was left with the two younger, leaner warriors, Koll and Skili, both about the age of seventeen. He had not overseen their dragon training, so he was rather unfamiliar with them, but he knew they were both from two of the wealthier families in the village.

The three of them strolled in the dimly daylit tunnels, until they reached the door to the upper caves. The entrance was guarded by a sleeping Bucket, who was swiftly awoken and sent home, accompanied by a few distasteful jeers echoing from the two boys. The blacksmith ignored them, and entered the passage.

“Stay here,” he instructed. His tone wasn’t one to allow for any dispute, and the young men obeyed reluctantly. He wasn’t going to let them sneer at Hiccup as well, especially whilst the boy was behind bars.

Gobber reached the cell. He peered inside to spot his apprentice in the darkness. From the cracks in the cave’s walls, feeble rays of early-morning light provided scarce visibility, but it was enough for Gobber to notice that Hiccup was already awake, waiting in a limp sitting position, with his arms wrapped around his gut, trying not to shiver.

The boy had obviously slept very little. The cold stone floor was an unforgiving bed; Gobber knew this from experience. Those harsh arrangements were not the sole cause of Hiccup's awful shape though. The boy looked completely resigned to his fate, drained of all hope, his face more lifeless than anything alive should ever dare to be. Clearly, a whole night of agonizing worry and fear had left the kid in a worse state than Gobber had expected. Was Hiccup _that_ distraught over the situation? Did he truly think his father wanted him dead? What had Stoick told the boy? Suddenly, Gobber realized his intervention was more urgent than he had previously thought.

And yet… _Yes, there._ It was almost imperceptible, drowned in all that sorrow. But, for an instant, Gobber had seen it. A hint of fire, of defiance, burning in Hiccup’s deep green eyes. No matter what happened today, the boy was going to fight.

_He’s a Viking alright,_ Gobber thought with a mixture of pride and relief. _How long 'till he finds out for ‘imself?_

“Mornin’!” He greeted, smiling with purposefully inappropriate liveliness.

Hiccup barely raised his eyes, and only offered a quick distant smile in return. Gobber pushed the bowl of food he had been holding through the usual opening. A thin cut of stock-dried cod and more bread. Though meat or fish were never given to the rare prisoners, Gobber could not help it. In fact, he wished he could have given the boy something better, but that meal was already more than any other prisoner could have ever hoped to get. Besides, this wasn’t the time to raise suspicions of favoritism towards his apprentice.

Hiccup let the bowl slide inside, but ignored it.

“Not hungry?” Gobber asked jovially. “Can’t blame ya. What with ya choosing exile and all...” He murmured the last part, aware of the curious peering ears of Koll and Skili by the tunnel gate. “Think on the positives though, ya get to leave this miserable wet rock we call an island.” Gobber sat on the floor, close to the iron bars of the cell. “Where will ya go first?” He asked eagerly. “So many places to see.”

“Where the currents take me, I suppose,” Hiccup replied, his voice dry and bitter. “One can’t do much sailing when tied to a mast.”

“I’d go first to Thor Rock,” Gobber interjected in a casual tone, so as to avoid attracting the unnecessary attention of the two guards, who were clearly failing at appearing indifferent to their conversation, “then Boar Head Island, and I’d move south from there. Warmer. And I hear the mead is very good,” he added heartily.

“I’m sure it is,” the boy replied absently. Then, after a contemplative pause, he added: “but I don’t drink, so...”

“I bet _that’s_ going to change,” Gobber chuckled. “Trader Johann once even said that, in the far south, they drink a type of red mead from the mainland, made with small sweet fruits which-”

“Gobber?” Hiccup cut him off, very much indifferent to the topic. “Be honest. You really think I can make it in the summer storms? Even if I’m not tied to a mast?” The boy’s voice was trembling, either due to his weakened state, or to the sharp chill in the caves, or maybe because of the mounting fear of the now very imminent trial.

“Oh, I’m sure something good will come up,” Gobber said reassuringly. He winked, but the boy didn’t catch the gesture. Hiccup’s eyes were distant.

“I can barely steer a small boat by myself, Gobber!” Hiccup complained. “With winds _that_ strong I’m sure to end up on the Outcast Islands like any other stranded ship! And I’ll probably be dead when I get there! And what about Toothless? I don’t want him to die like-”

The boy’s voice and welling tears were interrupted by the loud horn-signal outside. The sound reverberated in the tunnels. Gobber did not try to console Hiccup. There was no time.

As soon as the echoes stopped, the two youths approached the cell without any prompt from Gobber. Koll handed him the chains, which the prisoner would have to wear, and the relative lock key. In the meantime, Skili entered the cage, and lifted Hiccup, holding him from under one armpit. Once the young boy was unceremoniously dragged out, Gobber arranged the chains around Hiccup’s thin wrists and secured the lock. Normal shackles wouldn’t do, for Hiccup’s feeble hands were, as Spitelout had put it, ‘like a pile of twigs’; they were going to slip right through.

Before the four of them started to march towards the exit, Gobber turned to one of the young men. “Skili, right? Ya stay here and clean up the cell,” he commanded. That’s how Gobber planned to get rid of at least one of the annoying guards.

“ _What?!_ ” The youth barked with an insulted glare.

“Chief’s orders lad,” Gobber quickly lied, and it was fortunately enough. The word of the chief was not to be trifled with; every villager knew that much. Therefore, since Gobber was Stoick’s best friend, he had the convenient privilege to claim the chief’s authority behind his decisions, and end most arguments in that fashion, especially with the younger folks.

Skili turned around with a grunt, but followed the order. The rest of them walked out of the tunnel, and into another one, and then another, until they reached the biggest chamber of the caverns underneath Berk.

The place had a dim, eerie glow, a result of the long beams of daylight which infiltrated the darkness through large natural openings on multiple sides of the huge dome above. Water also leaked inside from the high stone ceiling, trailing the tall pointy stalactites that often joined with the floor, thereby forming massive limestone pillars. The smooth floor, all across that immense underground chamber, had been sculpted evenly and flat by their legendary ancestors, just like the Great Hall. Only one sloped path led outside.

Gobber and Koll began to move towards the light of the exit, steering Hiccup by his gangly elbows, when the sound of wooden wheels and chains being dragged behind them caught their attention. From a broad dark tunnel emerged a group of six Vikings. Gobber recognized Spitelout and Brunhilda in the forefront. They were hauling the wooden cart that restrained the Night Fury.

“Toothless!” Hiccup yelled, and successfully yanked himself from the two men, catching them by surprise. He ran towards the dragon, despite the weight of his chained wrists. Gobber and Koll quickly followed, but didn’t grab the boy when they understood that he wasn’t going to escape.

Hiccup had fallen on his knees, hugging the dark scaly head of the Night Fury. The dragon was tightly chained and muzzled, so it only managed to produce what sounded like a long sad moan.

The scene was utterly out of the ordinary for Gobber, and, in spite of all expectations, he found himself rather uncomfortable at the sight of his apprentice embracing the winged beast. A lifetime of experience fighting dragons had made Gobber physically certain of their thirst for blood. He had seen what they could do with a single bite, he had felt it on his now crippled body. He couldn’t help finding that loving interaction more than a little unsettling. He could easily imagine what the other Vikings were thinking. Disgust was eventually the most prominent emotion radiating from their faces.

“I’m sorry,” Hiccup murmured, pressing his forehead on the dragon’s. “It’s all my fault. I’m sorry.”

The beast gave a sorrowful purr in response. Everyone else stood still as ice, as they witnessed the unbelievable display of affection. It was as if Loki himself had appeared in their midst.

“Enough of this!” Spitelout suddenly barked, moving to snatch Hiccup away from the Night Fury. Gobber blocked his way immediately, positioning himself face to face with the aggressive man.

“Ya touch my apprentice, I get meself a new arm,” he said coldly, threateningly. He didn’t want to start a brawl so early in the day, but he could also not risk Spitelout, whose intentions were not a well-kept secret, to lay hands on the young heir. Gobber knew the boy’s uncle had plenty of reasons for hurting Hiccup in that very moment, and enough justifications, as well as a sufficient amount of support from the council, for going relatively unpunished.

Before Spitelout could respond to the threat, however, Hiccup stood up, offering his chained arms, so that the procession towards the arena could resume. Meanwhile, Spitelout’s furious eyes kept piercing Gobber’s own, but the man’s mad glare was disturbed by his nephew’s words:

“Smile, uncle ‘Lout,” Hiccup said with a resigned, yet exceptionally bold voice. “Snotlout might become the next chief now,” he added, then half-whispered: “but thank the gods I won’t be here to see the results.”

Fortunately, the boy’s last insolent remark went entirely unnoticed by Spitelout, who had been immediately appeased and distracted by the partial confirmation of his greatest hopes and dreams.

Gobber could already see Spitelout’s proud eyes begin to celebrate the fact that his son would probably never feel the shame of always being second best, like he had all his life. Unless of course Stoick could somehow still manage to get his way. And Stoick usually did, but Spitelout seemed momentarily overwhelmed by hope to remember that.

Gobber was the only one who smiled at his apprentice’s snarky comment. He suddenly realized how much he was going to miss the little clumsy boy’s company, especially during the long hours at the forge. Alas, he had no other choice in the matter; all he could do now was help Hiccup, not himself.

The six Vikings responsible for the Night Fury moved onwards and outside, wordlessly dragging the wooden cart, while Gobber, Koll, and Hiccup followed slowly behind them, all the way up the dangerous path hacked in the cliff’s precipice, and then across the bridge, until the arena came into view.

The scene that welcomed them was very similar to the previous day, and yet entirely different. The crowd was the same, counting nearly every Berkian villager, but, while the day before they had been greeted by cheers and praise, today only whispers and murmurs could be heard. A few crying babes, an occasional cough, and the now increasing rainfall were the only noises in their ears.

The dragon was pulled inside first. A surge of whispers accompanied the entrance of the wooden cart as the villagers observed the legendary creature. Some murmured “ _Night Fury!_ ” Others spat with revulsion at the beast that had caused them so much trouble during past raids, and a substantial number of deaths too.

Before passing through the arena’s gate, Gobber addressed Koll with a final order. “Go tell the chief that his son has arrived. I’ll take it from here.”

Koll didn’t question him, and darted off into the crowd, eagerly accepting the more prestigious task than the one his friend Skili had received in the caves.

Gobber led Hiccup under the stone-covered passage of the entrance to the arena. He closed the iron bars behind them. Sheltered from the rain and from most of the crowd’s stares, Gobber was finally as alone with Hiccup as he was going to get. He understood that it was his last chance to talk to his apprentice without anyone hearing him. Fortunately, Stoick hadn’t yet made his arrival, which meant that Gobber could stall for a while, before reappearing from the other end of the passage, and thus inside the pit, where Hiccup was expected.

“Hiccup,” he said trying to gain the boy’s attention, but Hiccup’s mind had drifted away almost entirely. “Hiccup, look at me.”

“I can’t… I think I’m going to throw up,” Hiccup responded, heaving.

“Time for that later. Now listen carefully.”

“They are going to… p- please don’t make them hurt him.” The boy pleaded with a heart-wrenching tone. Gobber began to worry that Hiccup was going to faint at any moment, so he interrupted him quickly. There was no time for niceties.

“I said shut up and listen!” He barked.

“I can’t let him die, Gobb-”

“I know,” Gobber cut in, “that’s why ya _must_ pay attention.” He grabbed Hiccup vigorously from the shoulders as he spoke, startling the boy and forcing his attention on himself. “Yer dragon friend does what ya say, right?”

“Wha-... yes?” Hiccup answered, not understanding the meaning of the question. Yet his narrowing eyes said that he had at least snapped out of his desperate trance.

“Good. Now, here’s the key to yer chains.” As discreetly as he could, Gobber lodged the small object in the boy’s cold wet palm. “Hide it. When I remove the muzzle-guard from the Night Fury, ya tell ‘im to blast the rest of his chains. His fire is clearly strong enough. Mount ‘im and flee. Ya must be quick. With some luck, ya might be out of ‘ere before the first axe flies.” Gobber explained his plan with fast but clear words.

At the back of his mind, he also realized he had inadvertently addressed the beast as a ‘he’ for the first time. Was this a bad thing? He was still going to need to fight the beasts in the coming raids. No, this was not the time to question his actions.

“What…? Gobber-”

“Hush!” Gobber promptly interrupted again. “There’s yer basket at the forge. I added a few things to it. Go get it before ya leave the island. There should be no one in the village, so ya might have a little time to look around, but not much before someone finds ya. Understand?”

“Gobber, you… my dad will murder you!” Hiccup hissed, trying not to shout.

“Worried ‘bout me, are ya now?” Gobber asked with a bold smirk. “We go way back yer father and I, I’m sure he’ll go easy on me.” He paused to consider his words, “...or not.” He shrugged. “Eh! That’s none of yer concern now, is it?” He then briefly hugged his apprentice, putting some unnecessary force in the gesture, which ended up squeezing the air out of the boy. “I really hope flying’s at least half as good as it sounded to the twins, ‘cause it only sounds frightening to me. But still... try to be safe, Hiccup.”

“I don’t know what to say… I- I-” Hiccup stuttered with relief. “Th- thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Ya know what to do. Now be prepared. Remember, ya’ve got to be quick, Hiccup. No more of all… _this_.” Gobber pointed what was left of his upper limbs towards Hiccup’s whole figure.

“You just gestured to all of me,” the boy complained with a grin, visibly trying to blink the moisture in his eyes away. “I’m going to miss you, Gobber.”

“Aye, aye, me too. I’ll have to find me a new apprentice. Odin knows there ain’t many strong lads like _you_ around ‘ere.” Gobber said teasingly.

The second horn signal finally announced the chief’s arrival. They had stalled enough. It was time to move.

“No regrets, remember?” He said, mostly to himself, then gently grabbed the young boy from his elbow. They proceeded into the arena.

Once they got in, silence fell upon the crowd for a second time. Only the heavy raindrops could be heard, clinking on some villagers’ helmets.

Gobber walked to the center of the arena, where the dragon’ restraining cart had been placed. He left Hiccup as close to the dragon’s muzzled head as he could without raising suspicion, then moved to the other side of the cart, so that the Night Fury’s head could be between them. From that position, he could still look at Hiccup, and they could both face straight up towards Stoick the Vast, who stood again outside the rim of the pit, this time with his arms sternly crossed.

In the pit, fortunately for Hiccup, were very few other people. Only a dozen armored men were trailing the perimeter. Among them, with his back to the central dragon pen, was Spitelout, who had been tasked to protect a person Gobber had not expected to see standing _inside_ the arena. Gothi.

Her presence as a representative of the gods was not surprising of course, but nobody in their right minds could have asked the esteemed elder to stand so close to the dangerous dragon. In fact, she had always observed such events from a safe distance. Never before had she been seen inside the fighting pit. Gobber could only deduce that this had been a specific request on her part.

The old woman was hunched over her ornate staff, the very tool she would use to communicate by drawing in the dirt, since she had taken her vow of silence. Nobody knew why Gothi had stopped speaking. Some said the gods had taken her voice in exchange for her exceptional abilities as völva and healer. Others said that Freya herself had told her an outrageous secret seven years before, when the vow had been made, and she had decided not to speak since.

Gobber however, who was among the rare few that could coherently interpret her scribbles in the dirt, thought of her only as a stubborn old crow, but a mute crow nonetheless, which made her surprisingly good company when it came to sharing his mead, along with his more private woes and worries. Even so, on some occasions, Gobber found the undoubtedly vast wisdom shining through her gaze to be, at the very least, unsettling. This was one such occasion.

_Why is she in here?_

Gothi was still carefully studying the beast, when her ice-blue eyes moved upon Hiccup, and, finally, they met Gobber. Her acute, knowing stare made the man very uneasy. She always understood more than she let on, and Gobber couldn’t help fearing that the cunning elder suspected him of being up to something, even though he had told no one of his plan. Still, there was no malice or judgement in the woman’s eyes, which Gobber could only take as an encouraging sign.

Stoick cleared his throat. “Vikings of Berk!” He began. “We gather here today to quench the unfortunate rumor that Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, my son, has conspired with the dragons against our mighty tribe.” The chief shouted his words, perhaps unnecessarily, as the crowd was producing the most uncomfortable silence Gobber had ever witnessed. He then placed his hands on his hips with an air of confidence. “We shall also witness my boy finally become a true Viking, by killing his first dragon. This ungodly beast, the offspring of lightning and death itself, the Night Fury, that yesterday interrupted my son’s last trial, dies today!”

Somewhat scarce were the cheers that followed the inspiring statement.

“Today,” Stoick quickly added, giving his crowd a second chance, “we feed the earth with dragon’s blood!”

The chief was finally granted a slightly more appropriate round of boastful shouts. Meanwhile, the Night Fury had grown uneasy, and was uselessly pulling at the heavy chains that trapped it. Hiccup had noticed this, but Gobber caught his attention, and, without saying a word, he informed the boy it wasn’t time yet. Finally, Stoick decided to address his son directly.

“Hiccup, you are accused of conspiring against your village, and siding with the dragons. Is that true?” The question was obviously Stoick’s way of slightly blurring the matter to help salvage his son’s reputation.

“That’s _not_ true!” Hiccup yelled. Indeed, it wasn’t.

“Do you think that dragons should be allowed to freely pillage our livestock without retaliation?”

“ _What?_ No. I never-”

Stoick cut him off with another question: “Do you excuse the dragons for killing our fellow villagers then?”

“Wha- I just said- I…” Hiccup was clearly beginning to understand what his father was trying to do. “No,” he answered decisively. He wasn’t lying of course, but it was now obvious that Stoick wasn’t asking the right questions.

Unfortunately for the chief, other members of the council decided to step forward, and address the heir themselves. Mildew Arvidson, better known as Mildew the Unpleasant, went first.

“Is it true you befriended this dragon?” He croaked. Even the bony old man’s voice was unpleasant, just like everything else about him, including the cabbages he farmed.

Gobber could see Stoick’s glare visibly warn Hiccup. The boy looked at his father, then Gobber, then at his father again. “Yes,” he replied.

A few scandalized whispers began to rise above the sound of the rain, when Vermund the Bald, the youngest among the council members, decided to intervene.

“Are ya still going to kill it, to redeem yerself for this grave offence in the eyes of gods and men?” The tall man asked behind his bushy blond mustache.

Gobber considered the question. Despite the general mood, they were going easier on his apprentice than he had expected, which was probably the result of Stoick’s ‘ _Viking charm_ ’; and by _Viking charm_ Gobber would usually allude to the not-so-veiled threats with which his best friend was incredibly creative. He had always admired that about Stoick. The powerful man had never demonstrated any particular form of creativity, but when it came to anger-fuelled violence, he had the tongue of a poet.

Hiccup did not answer his questioner. He looked uncertain of what to do. The poor boy was obviously being pressured by all the murmurs and stern looks, especially his father’s. He looked at Gobber.

_Not yet,_ Gobber thought frantically. _I need to think of a distraction first._

“Hiccup!” Stoick called with impatience. “You’ve always said you wanted to be one of us, a _true_ Viking. You are not even required to fight the foul beast, for we already know it’s far too dangerous to let loose. You merely have to kill the Night Fury, and claim your rightful-”

“No,” Hiccup interrupted. His answer came out weakly at first.

“ _Hiccup-_ ” Stoick began threateningly.

“I said no!” The boy shouted with exasperation, and... Yes, there it was again, the hint of fire Gobber had seen in his eyes. The anger. Was there also a spark of manliness in the way Hiccup had spoken? Had Hiccup’s voice finally begun to break? Gobber tried to suppress a smile.

Hiccup went on, shouting, but this time he addressed the whole arena.

“I am not one of you, because you’ll never let me be! I don’t know if I’m right or wrong, but you won’t even _listen_ to what I have to say about the dragons! Fine! I don’t care! You _will_ listen to what I have to say about _this_ dragon, though! This Night Fury here, he is my best friend! If killing him is what it takes to be a _true_ Viking, then I don’t _ever_ want to be one!!” Hiccup screamed the last few words with all the strength of his small lungs. His voice squeaked at the end, but nobody laughed.

Gobber looked at Stoick. He could almost see the man’s jaw contract so tightly, that he feared his friend’s teeth might fuse together like hot metal; his face was turning a bright red.

Appalled outcries started multiplying within the crowd.

“Outrageous!”

“Traitor!”

“Dragon lover!”

They were all abruptly vanquished by one thunderous roar:

“YOU EITHER KILL THAT FUCKIN’ BEAST, HICCUP, OR YOU ARE NO LONGER MY SON!”

Silence fell after that. The rain poured harder.

The sudden words had caught everyone off guard, even Gobber, who could never have expected such a harsh outburst from his friend towards his only child. Had Stoick just threatened to disown his son? Exile was one thing, exile could be temporary, but disownment... For a brief moment, Gobber forgot his purpose in the arena. He was reminded of it by none other than Gothi.

The elder was looking Gobber straight in the eyes, when he caught the hint of a grin upon her teeth-deprived mouth. While he could always understand what she drew in the dirt, he still could not even glimpse at what went on in that cunning head of hers.

She moved her free hand, and clutched her bodyguard’s tunic. Then, suddenly, she fainted. Spitelout caught her in his arms, attracting the attention of all.

Gobber finally realized what she was doing. The crafty old bag was actually helping him! With the strongest of the Vikings inside the pit distracted by Gothi’s fake emergency, Gobber decided it was time to act.

“Hiccup! Now!” He hissed while he swiftly approached the Night Fury to unlock its muzzle-guard; the contraption fell on the floor.

In the meantime, Hiccup was already removing his own bonds. As he did so, he yelled the instruction to the dragon: “Toothless! Blast your chains. Quick!”

Gobber hoped the dragon would understand, and would avoid attacking his own, already maimed body. Everyone else was still too confused as to what was happening to react in time.

The sharp screech of the Night Fury was followed by a loud explosion of splinters and dust. Gobber had to cover his face to protect himself from the blast. Smoke immediately filled the arena. Gobber couldn’t see anymore, which meant that neither could anyone else. He could also not hear very well; his ears were ringing. He decided to move towards the exit, he wanted to see them actually make it to the sky.

He felt a strong swish of leathery wings, and saw the smoke curl around him. When Toothless lifted off with a powerful gust of air, Gobber only managed to get a glimpse of Hiccup on the dragon’s back, as the two of them flew out through the hole in the steel net above, which had been broken just the day before by the same Night Fury.

Gobber ran out of the pit, and had to shove a few people aside to make his way towards the steep cliff that partially surrounded the arena. He didn’t get too close to the edge, since the cliff promised a deadly drop of nearly thirty paces, straight into the churning sea.

He finally heard Stoick’s approaching shouts of Hiccup’s name. The chief was closely followed by a few quick Vikings, who were peering into the sky to spot the elusive Night Fury. Snotlout and Astrid were there too, axe at the ready; so were the twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, and Fishlegs, the rest of the tribe right behind them.

“HICCUUUP!” Stoick screamed at the top of his lungs.

Hiccup and Toothless had disappeared, and the growing downpour made it hard to see. However, Gobber could swear he was still hearing the flapping of wings, although muffled by the sound of waves crashing on the rocks below.

All of a sudden, a fast, black shape shot upwards from under the cliff. It slowed down just before the heavy clouds, turning on its back and drawing an arch in the sky. As the creature began its descent, it produced a roar unlike any other Berk had ever witnessed. The sound was cold and sharp, angry and terrifying. Even from their distance, some Vikings flinched and stepped backwards on impulse. Admittedly, no Berkian had ever heard the Night Fury’s true roar, only a few snarls from the day before, and the signature screech that preceded its powerful blue fire.

The dragon landed elegantly upon a nearby sea-stack. Not close enough to be within the reach of a throwing axe, but neither too far. In fact, they could all still make out Hiccup’s dripping face as he sat on the back of the majestic creature, its dark bat-like wings half unfolded, water pouring off of them.

Gobber was surprised to see how even the puny little Hiccup could acquire the semblance a legendary hero on dragonback. It was an awe-inspiring sight, despite the heavy rain. A vision that, had Berkians not known of its unfortunate circumstances, would have surely become the object of myth, embroidered on tapestries, enshrined in stone, and recited in exuberant songs for years to come.

The young boy was saying his last bitter goodbyes by looking at them in turns. Gobber saw his apprentice look first at his father, who silently whispered his son’s name to himself.

Gobber knew his actions were going to gravely hurt his best friend. He was aware that Stoick cared about Hiccup more than anything in the world, even though it often seemed like the chief prioritized Viking laws and honor. Gobber just hoped he had done the right thing, for all their sakes.

The dragon-boy’s gaze turned to him. Gobber half-raised his good arm in salute.

_Farewell little toothpick,_ he thought, but did not speak. In fact, no actual words were uttered on the island of Berk for those few precious moments.

Surprisingly, Gobber noticed that the privilege to Hiccup’s last glance was strangely not his to claim, which he found slightly disconcerting at first. He didn’t manage to see to whom it was given right away.

The boy’s lips moved, yet no sound reached their ears. Then, just like that, Hiccup turned his back to all of them, and took off. He turned the winged creature towards the empty village. Gobber was glad to see his apprentice hadn’t forgotten about the basket he had prepared.

Gobber finally scanned the crowd for the person who had received the boy’s last goodbye. It shouldn’t have surprised him though, that the Viking with whom Hiccup felt the need to part the least was, in fact, the young, fierce, and beautiful Astrid, her look both one of dismay and awe. Gobber smiled hopefully at that.

_He’ll come back. Someday._


	7. Doubt

**(Astrid)**

 

A surprising expression of determination was painted over Hiccup’s freckled face as he stepped into the pit of the arena, alongside Gobber the Belch.

Astrid watched the procession as if it was some unexpected dream, like those where one is nothing but a powerless spectator, thin and insubstantial. She had managed to place herself close to the rim of the pit, her hands on one heavy link of the chains that formed the damaged protective dome. The cold steel touching her palms and the familiar weight of her rain-soaked clothes were the only proof that she was, in fact, quite awake.

A few moments before Hiccup’s arrival, when the Night Fury was being dragged in, Astrid had tried to look into its eyes. Maybe a murderous glance from the unholy beast would have given her the confirmation she needed, the answer to the conundrum haunting her mind ever since she had left the prison caves: had she done the right thing? An unwelcome question, its source an unknown, unexplored crevice of her conscience. However, the creature had bypassed her gaze, somehow purposefully (or so she told herself), just to make her feel even more insignificant. A stupid thought probably.

_It’s just a dragon Astrid. Get a grip!_

Hiccup finally joined the chained Night Fury at the center of the arena, under the increasing rainfall. The summer storms were probably beginning early this year.

Like the dragon, even Hiccup had not looked at her. Instead, his eyes were trained solely on his father. Astrid found herself hoping for the boy to quickly accept the offer the chief was making, and bring an end to the whole story. She pleaded in her mind for Hiccup to do the right thing.

_Just kill that Night Fury,_ she prayed.

Astrid wanted to believe that, if Hiccup were to do it, it would finally erased the state of confusion that the boy’s words had ignited. It would mean that he accepted the truth: all dragons were evil creatures. There was no room for exceptions in the Viking world. Uncertainty would only bring hesitation, and hesitation invariably brought defeat and disgrace.

Alas, despite her prayers, Astrid could feel her wish was unlikely to be granted. If only she had succeeded in killing the dragon herself during Hiccup’s fight with the Nightmare.

The previous day, after making sure that Gobber had found the boy at the forge, Astrid had gone home, she had taken some time to drink, splash cool water on her face, and grab her mother’s spare axe, before darting off towards the place she suspected Hiccup of leaving the dragon. She didn’t care about Hiccup’s fight, nor did she stop to truly consider the words the boy had just spoken in the cove:

_‘...I don’t want to kill a dragon!’_ Hiccup had said.

Astrid was still convinced the boy was going to use his tricks to win, before attempting to leave Berk for good. So, although her absence from the great event could be considered petty and dishonorable, she decided she had a much more noble task to carry out. She too had a dragon to kill. She was then going to prove Hiccup guilty of treason by finding the boy’s harness, and showing it to the chief. It was going to work.

She had found the Night Fury almost exactly where she expected it to be, but that small victory had soon turned out to be quite insignificant. The black dragon was right at the forest border, protecting a large basket, and waiting for Hiccup to come back.

She had attacked with all her might and skill and speed, and, despite the element of surprise, she had failed, again. She had failed Berk by not killing the beast, or maybe, she now thought, she had ultimately failed Hiccup, who wouldn't have been in this situation had she managed to slay the Night Fury by herself. Nevertheless, the boy’s well-being had not been a concern of hers at that moment.

She was still angry with him. The dragon was agile though, fast unlike any other, even on land, too strong, despite its size, and, most disturbingly, too careful. It was as if the Night Fury had been expecting her to come.

When Astrid had found herself disarmed and pinned to the ground, all in the blink of an eye, the black beast had sat on her with an insolent huff, blocking her movements, yet with the amazing care not to crush her ribs with its weight. She had expected to die at least a warrior’s death, but why hadn't the dragon killed her without Hiccup to stop it? That was one of the many questions that most of all troubled her mind today, twisting her insides.

_‘A dragon always goes for the kill’._ That’s what Gobber always said. And yet, she had been taken captive. Could dragons understand such a concept?

Eventually, distressing sounds had risen in the distance, and the Night Fury had instantly left towards the arena, abandoning Astrid and the basket in the process. What was she to do after being defeated and spared twice by the same dragon?

When she had finally joined the commotion at the arena, the scene that had welcomed her had been an unexpected one. Hiccup was unconscious, the sturdy protective dome, which could withstand even a Deadly Nadder’s fire, sported a glowing, smoking gash on it, and the Night Fury was in chains, which were apparently not enough to keep the beast restrained without six more men trying to hold it down as well.

Astrid realized how foolish she had been. She never had a chance of killing the rare dragon alone to begin with. Its small size had given her confidence, but it was apparently called the ‘offspring of lightning and death’ for a reason.

Hiccup too had failed his fight with the Nightmare, and he had nearly died. A part of her had been glad the boy hadn’t succeeded; she was the one deserving that honor. However, try as she might, Astrid couldn’t ignore the severe knowledge that the kid’s condition was her fault. She would have been indirectly responsible for Hiccup’s death, had the Night Fury not intervened. But why did she care so much? Empathy had never been Astrid’s sharpest weapon; at least that’s how she liked to see herself.

_Our family is loyal to Stoick the Vast, and Hiccup is his rightful heir. Yes, that’s why. He is going to be the next chief, and that is all that matters._

She tried to rationalize her feelings. After all, it was only very recently that Astrid had started thinking of Hiccup as her chief-to-be. Perhaps it had been because of Stoick’s words after her report on Hiccup’s whereabouts.

_‘I trust you not to speak of this anymore.’_ Her chief had said. _‘This matter must be handled with the utmost care Astrid. Hiccup is going to be chief one day.’_

Stoick’s voice had brimmed with certainty, so much so that Astrid found herself realizing the truth about Hiccup’s future as if for the first time. She had always known, yet she had never taken it seriously. How could she, when Hiccup had always been such a clumsy little runt? If the boy had to become her chief however, he needed to become a true Viking first; he needed to kill the beast. Therefore, she prayed for Hiccup to do just that, swallowing her pride for the honor of being loyal to her village, and to the admirable Stoick the Vast, according to whom such treason could and would be atoned for by having his son execute that deceitful creature.

Still, no matter how hard she was trying, Astrid could not share her chief’s conviction. Her chief had not been at the cove. He had not seen the interaction between the boy and beast. He had not witnessed how Hiccup had caressed its snout, washing away the creature’s feral glare as if by magic. In addition, Astrid had not told him how she had found the Night Fury on her own and, even more importantly, she hadn’t revealed that the dragon had spared her life, even in Hiccup’s absence.

The confusion was making her dizzy. She felt as if something had broken in the world. As if someone had tampered with the rules that governed Midgard, and they no longer made sense. Would the sun start rising in the west?

To make matters worse, ever since the previous morning, after the sight of Hiccup’s unconscious body sprawled on the arena’s floor, an unpleasant sense of guilt had nested itself inside of her. She could feel the unease like a weight pressing on the pit of her stomach. Her hands tightened with frustration around the metallic link of the chains that kept her outside the pit.

Admittedly, Astrid had always loathed being guilty or wrong about anything. It had been that way ever since her childhood.

_‘Stubborn like a Haddock, but at least prettier! Ain’t ya lass?’_ Her family used to say between laughs, while she could only pout in response.

She had grown up since then. Now, every time she made a mistake, she had to be the first to acknowledge it, as her beloved uncle Finn had taught her. It was the most dignified way to come to terms with one’s failure.

_Who have I failed now though?_ She asked herself.

Before his death, Fearless Finn Hofferson, among other life lessons and fighting tips, had also taught her that there was honor in apologizing as well.

_But to whom do I have to apologize to rid myself of this guilt? What am I even guilty of?!_

She had tried apologizing to Hiccup. She had broken into the prison caves to do it, but it had been all for naught; the boy had gone insane, possessed by Loki. Dying for a dragon? It was madness by all accounts!

Astrid tried to quiet her feelings by reminding herself that she had always religiously obeyed the laws, she had done the right thing. She should have been proud, but she was physiologically incapable of feeling any sense of accomplishment at the moment. Her actions had spawned a storm, not only within herself, but in the whole village, a storm she was not prepared to handle, and, although it was out of her hands now, she still knew she was directly responsible for everything that was happening.

She was responsible for the boy being in chains before the whole village. She had also called that harmless-looking kid a traitor. Maybe she had been right, but it definitely didn’t feel so in her heart, especially after seeing his pitiful face in the prison. There was something she was missing perhaps. But, if she were indeed missing something, then wouldn’t all the other law-abiding Vikings be missing it too?

_What if Hiccup is right?_

The unwelcome question in her mind had taken a new shape. Her conscience appeared to be working against her best interests for some reason. Why could she not be as decisive as she had always been? She followed the rules. She was Viking! And she wanted to scream it to the gods, as if to remind them. Someone else screamed instead, startling her out of her inner conversation.

“I said no!I am not one of you, because you’ll never let me be! I don’t know if I’m right or wrong, but you won’t even _listen_ to what I have to say about the dragons! Fine! I don’t care! You _will_ listen to what I have to say about _this_ dragon though! This Night Fury here, he is my best friend! If killing him is what it takes to be a _true_ Viking, then I don’t _ever_ want to be one!!”

The words were coming from Hiccup, whose voice had a pitch of desperation and anger, but also a determination that wasn’t helping Astrid make her confusion any tamer. An unprecedented response followed from the chief:

“YOU EITHER KILL THAT FUCKIN’ BEAST, HICCUP, OR YOU ARE NO LONGER MY SON!”

After the shocking declaration, everything followed far too quickly, even for Astrid’s trained senses. Gothi fainted, Gobber hissed a command, the Night Fury emitted a screech, and, finally, an explosion filled the arena with grey smoke. Nobody moved, trying to understand what was happening all of a sudden. As soon as a dark figure flew like an arrow out of the arena, Astrid knew. Hiccup was leaving Berk with the dragon.

In that very moment, Astrid felt a spark of trepidation flood her chest. In fact, that sight made the knot in her insides loosen with an unbelievable, yet still unacceptable sense of relief. Hiccup was going to get what he wanted. It was going to be as if she had never discovered his secret in the first place. The thought made her feel less culpable, even though it was a cowardly one. She tried to suppress a sigh. She should have been outraged, and, in a sense, she was, but not with Hiccup.

The chief climbed between the protective chains and into the pit, frantically calling his son’s name. He made a beeline through the smoke and debris towards the exit at the other end, aiming for the cliffs. Astrid followed automatically; she had to do something. Staying idle would have been an admission of defeat. It would have made her a passive accomplice. Others had the same idea, and unsheathed their weapons before they too rushed in the direction of the sea.

Astrid made her way through the heavy rain and burly villagers. Her leaner-than-average figure helped her slip right beside her chief by the front lines near the cliff’s edge, just in time to witness the black dragon make a somersault in the sky, grazing the dark clouds and leaving a trail of swiped raindrops in its path.

The dragon produced the first Night Fury’s roar Astrid had ever heard. She could feel it on the surface of her prickling skin, like so many needles. It was an explosive release of anger, but also a scream of freedom, a draconic curse, a sickening insult, and a warning. When the dragon finally perched itself upon the closest sea-stack, she spotted Hiccup on top of the beast. Her emotions soared like an uncontrollable vortex. Anger, relief, disgust, awe, dismay, doubt.

The boy mounted the black monster like some southern knight upon a mighty steed. Astrid remembered the stories she had been told as a child, about valiant warriors in the mainland, riding into battle on the backs of horses. The island of Berk had no such animals, but most children had seen drawings.

Hiccup paused on the tall rock pillar. Their distance made the available weapons powerless against them. Still, the Night Fury kept emitting a defensive, deeply feral growl, but it stayed unmoving under the will of its rider. That’s when Astrid noticed a whole elaborate contraption attached to the saddle and the broken tail. Hiccup wasn’t commanding the beast; he was helping it fly! Astrid promptly recalled more of the words Hiccup had spoken at the cove.

_‘... one thing kind of led to another and we… became friends.’_

The boy was looking at them now. He was looking at her! His damned green eyes pierced through the rain, and shone with an unbearable mixture of sorrow and longing. Astrid was prepared to handle condemnation or contempt, but no, that wasn't Hiccup. It was in that very moment that the most staggering thought crossed Astrid’s mind: Hiccup was in love with her.

_Could it be?_

She had heard people whisper and snicker at the rumor, a rumor which she had often overheard about many boys about her age, and some quite older too, so she had never given it any credit. In fact, she had even received one or two actual confessions, bold, and brash, and obviously heedless of tradition. Yet Astrid had never really believed any of those words to be honest. Just talk. Just boys being boys, and at times men being vulgar. It was only now that she could finally tell, by some arcane faculty, that for Hiccup those rumors were actually true.

What was she to make of this information? She wasn’t even entirely sure what being ‘ _in love’_ meant. She had heard tales of crazy deeds performed by men and women alike in the name of _‘love’,_ but was it truly so strong an attachment to make Hiccup think of her, and turn to look at her with such agony in a moment as grave as that? Was she worth so much to that scrawny toothpick with whom she scarcely even spoke?

Astrid’s legs turned weak as grass, and it took all of her will not to fall on her knees and pray for wisdom to her uncle Finn, who was surely feasting beside the Allfather in Valhalla.

As Hiccup kept looking into her eyes, his mouth moved. Nobody could hear, and most could probably not see through the downpour, but Astrid read his lips. The words she could almost feel like a spear to the chest. They were the same words that had escaped her own mouth, before she had run into the forest to report his betrayal.

_I’m sorry._

Hiccup finally shifted his foot into the weird contraption, and both boy and dragon were airborne, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

_What is he sorry for?!_ Astrid thought, scowling furiously at the sky. _Is he sorry for betraying Berk? Is he sorry for telling me to ‘piss off’? Is he sorry for making me feel like yak-shit?! Well… he better be!_

"GOBBEEEER!"

Astrid snapped instantly out of her trance when the powerful cry that screamed of death and vengeance came out of the chief beside her, a violent roar that closely rivaled that of a dragon, and made the ground tremble. Astrid had seen the great man angry before, but never like this, and, although she was not the target of his anger, sudden fear wiped away all her previous thoughts like a storm.

Chief Stoick was out for blood.


	8. Being Stoic

**(Stoick)**

 

_No… Not my son too_.

For the second time in his life, Stoick the Vast was assaulted by an excruciating sense of powerlessness as he watched a dragon fly away with yet another member of his miserably small family. He had never forgotten the feeling of seeing his wife being taken from him, and he prayed every night never to relive the experience. Still, despite all his efforts, here he was again, leaning dangerously close to a steep cliff, and looking as a dragon flew away with his son.

No, Hiccup was willingly escaping from his grasp. The circumstances were different this time, but the dreadful feeling of loss and defeat was the same. Actually, it was worse. All of Stoick’s struggles to protect his son and give him a future as a respected chief had failed. All of his measures, which even he was willing to admit were sometimes overly forceful or drastic, had ultimately backfired in the worst imaginable way. Hiccup hated him now, he was leaving of his own accord. He had gladly embraced exile, for a dragon’s sake, no less!

_I did everything for his own good! Why couldn’t he just listen?!_ Stoick kept asking himself, not for the first time.

When Valka had died, he had vowed to the gods to protect Hiccup from all fire-breathing creatures. He had promised never to let a dragon even so much as glance at his son, before ripping the beast to pieces. However, when the boy had turned thirteen, Stoick had yielded to Gobber’s advice. He had made Hiccup join dragon-training with the other thirteen-year-olds, those who had the honor to train under the blacksmith’s supervision.  After all, most teens were expected to know how to fight after their fourteenth winter, and, traditionally, every chief’s sons were supposed to know as well. Stoick had planned for Hiccup to be made an exception to that unspoken rule. Alas, that was not how things had turned out.

Stoick knew he had always been an overprotective father, but it was for a good reason. Hiccup was his only close family left, and he was practically cursed with an unbelievable and often life-threatening clumsiness. Nevertheless, Stoick had understood the blacksmith’s reasoning: the boy needed to learn how to defend himself, how to kill dragons. The man had never expected things to turn out the way they had though.

_This isn’t how it was supposed to go. No. The Night Fury’s head should be on a spike. Hiccup should be on Berk, getting over this whole debacle, and preparing to one day become chief! Gobber was supposed to… Gobber!_

As soon as the black dragon had left Stoick’s view, an image of Gobber unmuzzling the beast flashed into his mind. Gobber had clearly helped the dragon free itself; he had helped Hiccup flee. His best and closest friend had betrayed him! Before Stoick could fully consider all that had taken place inside the pit, a spark of smoldering anger drowned his thoughts. Blinded by rage, only one idea lingered furiously in his mind:

_It’s all Gobber’s fault._

“GOBBEEEER!!!”

Stoick imbued all of his wrath into that one scream. If human shouts could kill, like a Thunderdrum’s roar, then the man’s cry would have already taken a heavy toll on the number of living Berkian villagers surrounding him. The voice was that of a man who had lost everything, a man who solely craved the sweet release of vengeance through violence. Nothing else mattered.

The Vikings around him had flinched at the sound, and were hastily distancing themselves from Stoick, who was then quickly able to spot Gobber. Stoick’s heavy, muscular body charged towards the blacksmith, whose gaze was still fixed at the sky, then, employing all his strength and momentum, he punched the other man’s face with terrible force. The blacksmith’s fake metal tooth shot off into the air and bounced onto the wet stone floor with a chime, carrying with it a thick, red streak of blood, along with another tooth, a real one.

Gobber had not been expecting the sudden attack. He lost his balance, and fell prone to the ground. The man didn’t need to look back to recognize his attacker. He had been graced by Stoick’s mighty punch before in his life, and today he was bound for more; much, much more.

Stoick picked the blacksmith up, and lifted him by his clothes to face him.

“ _YOU!_ _You_ did this!” He shouted. He didn’t wait for an answer, and immediately threw the burly blacksmith with an enraged groan towards the arena’s entrance. Gobber collapsed on the floor, chest first, suppressing a howl of pain at the impact. Stoick was going to tear him apart, limbs and stumps and all. There would be no trial for this kind of treason. The only currency with which to repay this betrayal could be pain, and death.

Gobber was of course an excellent fighter, but an angry Stoick packed the strength of twenty men. Stoick felt like he could have defeated his entire village single-handedly; such was his outrage. Meanwhile, the whole tribe watched, mute with expectation.

Nobody dared speak, even to remind Stoick that murder was actually against their laws. No one would dare confront him in this state, and, after all that had occurred before their eyes, probably no one would even blame him for killing the culprit. In fact, Stoick could feel some of his fellow villagers’ eyes following the confrontation with the typical Viking eagerness for violence. Some looked thrilled to enjoy a good fight, but this was going to be no fight. This was going to be a bloody execution.

“LEAVE! All of ya!” Stoick roared. “To the village! NOW!” He commanded. Not that there was any chance of catching the Night Fury, which Hiccup had directed towards the village, but this was solely between Gobber and himself, so it was a good excuse.

The Vikings all around felt suddenly targeted by Stoick’s fury, so, without delay, the crowd began to dissolve. Some didn’t look happy to miss a good show, but most were satisfied with the prospect of finding relief from the very harsh rainfall. The drops had gradually become uncomfortably large and heavy, and, although Vikings were indeed tough, a summer rain with no summer warmth could make even the sturdiest Berkian shiver.

When the unwelcome spectators had finally left, Gobber began to stand up. He spat the accumulated blood in his mouth, then attempted to clear his throat.

“Stoick, I-”

The blacksmith barely had the time to begin his sentence, before Stoick charged again. He punched the stomach of the other man, who bent over, then picked him from the back of his tunic, and dragged him inside the arena with a single hand. Stoick’s muscles were now flexed the same way they used to compress when he needed to tear the wings off dragons, or crush their reptilian skulls; no hammer was necessary to the mightiest warrior on Berk.

Gobber got up again. The crippled man’s balance was already beginning to dwindle after the heavy blows he had received.

"Stoick... I had to!” The blacksmith tried to explain. “Hiccup could never survive exile completely alone. He’d die out there in the winter by himself." He continued, while backing away from his angry opponent. He wasn’t fast enough, and Stoick grabbed him from his tunic again with both hands.

"You piece of yak-shit!” Stoick shouted, spitting on Gobber’s face as he spewed the boiling words. “Do you think I would have sent my only son into exile _ALONE?!_ ”

The notion that his trusted friend could have been so stupid warranted another punch, which he promptly and fiercely bestowed upon his cheekbone. Then, he added one more fist to the man’s lower ribs; there was an audible crack. Gobber fell on the floor, trying to suppress a cry of pain with a few low, agonizing groans. It didn’t matter. He deserved this and more for what he had done.

“One summer at the most!” Stoick continued, shouting at the man who lay on the ground, holding his aching abdomen. “Somewhere safe from the raids! He'd have sailed with an escort. I could have even sent _you_ along! You think I'm fuckin’ insane!? I’m the _chief_! You really think I'd send my only son to die in the winter?!” He asked rhetorically whilst lifting the man from his clothes to yell once more at his face. “My BOY!"

Once again, he threw his friend like a bundle of hay towards the wall of the pit. This time, Gobber cried in agony as soon as he touched the hard floor. The blacksmith coughed up blood, but that did not deter Stoick, who slowly closed the distance.

As he did, however, the words he had shouted the moment Hiccup had defied him in front of the whole village barged into his memory:

‘You either kill that fuckin’ beast, Hiccup, or you are no longer my son.’

Had he really meant to say it? Had he honestly hoped such threat was going to work? His son _was_ a Viking. No. Stoick could already feel a terrible remorse for the most regretful thing he had ever uttered, but he could not take it back, not now that Hiccup was gone, and that... _that_ _is Gobber’s fault!_

Gobber spat another mouthful of viscous, red saliva. “But ya told him that-”

“I don’t give two shits about what I said!” Stoick shot back. “It was to make him cooperate, and you went and fucked it all up!”

“Why…” Gobber began, but coughed again, producing an unsettling gurgle, and regurgitating some more. “Why didn’t you tell me of this?” He finally asked, barely able to speak; some of his insides had surely been damaged, but Stoick was not going to pity the man who had deprived him of his only son.

“I didn’t tell you, because you are a soft idiot! You would have told him! You would have ruined the plan. But instead you just ruined my goddamn life!” Stoick shouted. He simultaneously crawled over the blacksmith and started punching the half-conscious man on the floor with all his despair-fueled strength.

Truth be told, Stoick was half-lying. He hadn’t really expected Hiccup to defy him until the last moment, he hadn’t expected to need to consider exile for his son. He hadn’t yet planned for those circumstances, but that was likely what he would have done, if Gobber hadn’t intervened. Or so he thought now.

_He deserves this._ Stoick chanted inside his mind to justify each blow. His life was ruined; it was only fair that the culprit’s life met the same fate.

_Even if he is my best friend._

Gobber tried to defend himself using his forearms, but when his hook came off, exposing the scarred stump underneath, he gave up.

Before could strike the final blow, Stoick stopped, panting heavily. He grabbed the blacksmith’s vest again.

“Why would you let him go!?” Stoick croaked the empty question, which he didn’t really need answered anymore. He noticed he was crying, though the abundant rain disguised his tears. The realization that he might never see Hiccup again was beginning to solidify and manifest as grief, and the grief did not lend him any strength.

"Ya would have killed Toothless," Gobber replied.

"The dragon?!"

"He cares about 'im, Stoick,” Gobber said, harnessing all his spare strength to speak. “I know it’s unheard of, but if ya killed the Night Fury ya'd lose Hiccup too.” He coughed. “It's the first thing the lad’s truly cared about since Val died."

“Don’t you _DARE!_ ” At the mention of Valka, Stoick saw red. Nobody could talk about his wife’s death, and today even his best friend had lost that privilege. He picked the crippled man up with one hand and pinned him to the wall between the gates of two dragon-pens. With the other hand, he unbuckled his great, double-headed axe, and pointed one of the ornate blades at Gobber’s throat. He had to kill him; it was only fair.

"Go ahead, do it," Gobber said with surprising acceptance, looking at him with one eye half-open; the other eye was swollen beyond use.

"Oh, I _will!_ You think I'll go easy on you?!"

"No.” Gobber was quick to answer, his voice a broken whisper. “I know ya Stoick, ya’re my best friend. Ya’d never go easy on me... ya never have. Even after I lost me arm and leg, ya never pitied me in a bout.” The blacksmith tried to smile, exposing two rows of bloodied teeth, but he was soon seized by another coughing fit, which he repressed by sheer will so he could keep talking. “That's the reason we became friends in the first place, remember?” He turned his head and spat blood again. “Go on, I’m ready.” Another pained cough, followed by ragged breathing. “Ya _have_ to kill me. Need to maintain a reputation, chief. Can’t have traitors roam yer village now, can ya?"

Gobber was serious. He was willing to forfeit his life to protect his friend’s honor. He had foreseen death as a possible outcome of his treacherous act, and yet he had still done it for Hiccup’s sake. Realizing this, Stoick could only tense the grip on his weapon, tighter and tighter, knuckles white and wet, hesitating.

_I can’t do this,_ Stoick finally thought. He could not add to the ever-growing list of regrets in his life.

Sometimes, his biggest regret of all was actually becoming chief, which in turn was the main reason why that dreadful list had been growing ever longer, especially regarding Hiccup. Too many things were expected of him, and too many were the things he had ended up sacrificing, the latest of which was one he had mistakenly taken for granted, the most precious thing he had: his son’s love.

Stoick’s hesitation was visible, but his axe was still there, threatening the blacksmith’s neck.

"If ya’re goin’ to do it, do it!” Gobber’s voice trembled. His breathing hastened. No amount of courage and determination could overcome the fear of dying, especially when death was caressing one’s throat. “Do it fast. Please… s- strike true. Ya know how." He sounded as firm as he could. "DO IT!"

Stoick raised his axe, mustering all the remaining strands of his anger, and lodged the blade deep in the stone wall beside Gobber. He let go of the man, who plopped in a crimson puddle, a mixture of blood and rainwater. Stoick felt dizzy. He was about to throw up. He had been intoxicated by wrath, and he had almost murdered his closest friend.

_For what reason again?_ For a moment, he failed to remember. He turned around, not wishing to watch the miserable state in which he had reduced Gobber.

_Yes, he helped Hiccup escape. He allowed my son to abandon me. My Hiccup… But why? Am I the kind of monster who’d kill a friend? Did he try to save Hiccup from me?! No. No, that doesn’t make sense. I just tried to protect him. I did my best. This is not my doing!_

Stoick felt uncertainty creep inside of him, like a chill between his ribs. He had been about to kill his friend for the sake of honor and justice, the very thing Hiccup had refused to do to the dragon. What was going on?

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted by Gobber’s voice. Remarkably, the man was still conscious.

" _Aaaah_ , the great Stoick the Vast... can't kill a man with half his limbs?” He attempted to chuckle. “This can't be good for yer reputation." Clearly, Gobber would never let himself miss the occasion for a bold taunt, even in near-death situations. In fact, near-death situations seemed to be his favorite times for jeers and jokes.

"You weren’t holding a weapon,” Stoick murmured, his back still turned to the blacksmith. It was a good excuse. He was never going to admit he was actually disgusted by what he had been about to do. “You can’t enter Valhalla if you die unarmed," he added.

Gobber attempted a chuckle. “Ahh… The gods don't favor men like me, ya know that. Besides, I wasn't planning on feasting at Odin’s table. I'm not very hungry anyway."

Stoick turned to face his friend. The man was a wreck, bruised and bloody all over.

"I’ll spare you, but this doesn't mean I can forgive you, Gobber."

"Don’t ya trouble yerself.” Gobber coughed. “I’m not sorry."

Despite the blacksmith’s insolent honesty, Stoick did not feel his rage come back. Quite to the contrary; he was beginning to feel more lucid. His blood was boiling no more. In fact, he was cold and soaked all over, his clothes heavy with rainwater, his hands shaking.

“You _should_ be sorry,” Stoick said. “You let my only son leave on a dragon’s back to Thor knows where.” He wasn’t shouting anymore. He was weary, in both body and mind.

“I prefer to think I rescued ‘im.”

“ _Rescued_ him? From _me?!_ ” Stoick’s tried to sound angry, he still was, but his voice did not come out as loud as he had meant.

“From _all_ of us, Stoick,” Gobber pointed out hastily. “I know ya love the boy, but d’ya really think the others would accept him after _this_? Strange as it might seem, his only safety now lays away from Berk. He wouldn’t be safe here after doing what he did, no matter what punishment you give him. Someone might see chance for glory, and put a blade in his throat. And, I’ve told ya before, ya can’t always be there to protect ‘im.”

“Oh, and a dragon can?” Stoick’s question was not rhetorical this time, but he was never going to acknowledge it.

“It... _He_ already has. Toothless will protect him.” The blacksmith replied softly, closing his open eye.

Stoick groaned, but otherwise completely overlooked the notion of a dragon being protective of his son. He was never going to accept it. "You betrayed me, Gobber,” he said. “You'll still have to pay for this."

"Aye, aye... I know."

With those words, Gobber’s consciousness finally ebbed away. The man had suffered some serious wounds. He was going to need the healer. Stoick decided to look for Gothi, but he soon found he didn’t have to.

As he began to walk towards the exit of the arena, he found the old woman standing right in the middle of the threshold, waiting with the most ominous, disapproving scowl Stoick had ever seen on her face. She had been standing there, watching, disobeying his order. Stoick thanked the gods she had at least become mute, so he wouldn’t have to hear her judgement. He’d rather not know what she was thinking of him.

The bony woman was dripping-wet from the rain, her grey hair stuck to her face, but her light-blue eyes were as if glued open, like an owl’s. It was a ghastly sight. She wasn’t moving or blinking, yet her intense look Stoick’s eyes, saying both too much and too little. Was she condemning him? Or was that just how she looked under the rain? Rarely had Stoick felt intimidated in his life. This was one such occasion.

“Gobber is wounded,” Stoick found himself admitting nervously, “he needs healing.”

_How much did she hear?_ He wondered. Gothi was standing still as a statue, disturbingly frozen, not even a shiver under the cool rain.

_Who cares what she thinks! I’m the chief!_

Stoick walked outside, awkwardly bypassing the elder woman, who stubbornly occupied the center of the passage, making it oddly difficult for him to get out without jostling her. He had to trail the wall like a frightened child, carefully trying not to touch her, all the while refusing to feel humiliated by her uncanny authority. At least there was no one else there to see him.

Stoick finally began walking back to the village, leaving Gothi to the job of restoring the blacksmith’s health.

As he was walking, Stoick began to doubt whether he could be considered chief anymore. For the first time in his largely successful tenure, he felt utterly lost. He had been disobeyed before, but never had someone so close to him defied him in such an outrageous way. Maybe it had been bound to happen.

_Why are the people closest to me the ones I can control the least?!_

First, in his youth, it had been his competitive cousin Spitelout, who would invariably challenge Stoick’s position as chief. Stoick was thankful that at least those issues were now forgotten, and his relationship with his cousin was finally one of trust, or at least respect.

Later in life, his own wife Valka had often advocated a ‘ _different’_ approach to the war, sometimes even behind his back. He loved her of course, but he could never understand her motives for wanting to change things, up until the day she was taken by the dragons.

Then, Hiccup, who, for all his ‘unvikingness’, had ended up going against him before the whole village. And finally, Gobber too, his last true friend.

_Is this what it means to be a chief? To be a stranger to your own family, otherwise the village will stop respecting you?!_ Stoick reflected defeatedly. _If it's for the sake of the village, then so be it._ He concluded, disappointment weighing heavily in his chest.

Stoick was crossing the bridge that led home, lost in his thoughts, yet, as he walked, a black dot in the sky to his left caught his attention. The rain had eased by then, and some of the clouds had begun to tear, letting rays of afternoon sunlight pierce through, making the sea glimmer like gold, a most precious metal in the Archipelago. It was a rare and beautiful view, and an inappropriate one for such an awful day.

The black dot was getting smaller with every instant, and Stoick did not allow his eyes to blink for fear of losing it. It was Hiccup and the dragon. His boy was flying. _Flying!_ He was headed south. A smart choice. South of Berk was where most of the Archipelago’s islands were located. Hiccup was going to be hard to find. Stoick tried to memorize the direction of the dot, before he finally lost sight of it within the clouds.

_Straight south is Thor Rock, then Boar Head…_ He recalled. _Then it’s the Meatheads. And then… anywhere._

Stoick tried to calculate where Hiccup would go, but it was impossible. A dragon’s flight was not bound by currents or winds. He could fly anywhere, anytime. Stoick would need to search the whole archipelago to find his son. The thought sparked in him a great sense of frustration, which was nonetheless accompanied by a sense of determination, of the kind that ignited in most Vikings’ hearts at the mention of an impossible task.

Before he could fully make up his mind, Stoick realized that he had already decided what he was going to do. He was going to find his son, and he was going to bring him home. Most importantly, he was going to kill the devious Night Fury that had somehow bewitched the boy. Finally, he was going to restore their lives back to normality, no matter how forceful he needed to be.

_Let Hiccup hate me after that; I’ll embrace his spite. At least he’ll be home where he belongs. Yes. Yes. That’s the plan._

He was going to engage his problem head on, as he always had: the Viking way. He would not waste time moping.

Stoick quickened his pace towards the plaza. When he arrived, he observed that most villagers had returned to their daily activities, despite the whispers and sideways glances. The relatively ordinary air in the village reinforced his resolve. Only one person approached him hastily: his cousin.

“Stoick! We couldn’t catch ‘im.” The man reported. “The boy left before anyone could get ‘ere. Nothing’s been destroyed by the Night Fury at least.” Spitelout addressed him with strangely exaggerated concern.

“Of course you couldn’t catch him.” Stoick hadn’t expected Hiccup to be caught in the first place, so there was no condemnation in his voice. Instead, he displayed the usual eagerness he radiated whenever he gave orders. He was trying his best to act normal, as if everything was under control. “He’s on a Night Fury. Can’t catch him as he’s flying. We need to find him when the beast is on the ground. Now gather the council.”

“Wait. On the ground? Ya can’t mean...”

“That’s exactly what I mean, cousin,” Stoick said. “In fact, there ain’t no better hunter than you on the island, so I’m putting you in charge of the search party. Choose six good men or maidens that you trust, and sail south with the fastest ship. You’ll have to find Hiccup and bring him home safe, before the ice sets in.”

“But Stoick, summer is upon us! Dragons will begin raiding soon. Surely there’s some other man who’d be willing to leave the field of battle for some scavenger hunt!”

“I trust no one else but you anymore, Spitelout.” Stoick placed an enormous hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “You are the only one left.”

“So, ya’d have your cousin miss a chance for glory?” Spitelout complained.

“How ‘bout killing a Night Fury and bringing its head home on a spike? Ain’t that glory enough for you?” Stoick wore a challenging frown on his face. As Berk’s chief, he had mastered the tricks of persuasion well. None of those ‘tricks’ had ever worked on Hiccup unfortunately. However, they did work on other Vikings yearning for an honorable passage to Valhalla, and Stoick immediately caught a glimpse of a smile on his cousin’s face.

Yet there was something strange behind that smile. An unexpected amount of satisfaction perhaps. Had Spitelout been too easy to convince? Part of him considered it, but he was not going to look a gift yak in the mouth. Not today. He had many other matters he would have to attend to before this horrible day was over.

“But first: council meeting,” he instructed, and left towards the great hall.

* * *

The meeting was over by sunset. Stoick was the last to leave the large, oval table around which most of the village’s issues were discussed. He was still pinching the bridge of his nose when he decided it was time to finally go home, his vast reserves of strength and willpower now entirely depleted.

He slowly walked out, closing the immense gate behind him. Then, with the same spirit of a defeated man, he plodded down the steps of the great hall. Meanwhile, he kept replaying in his mind all that had occurred during the meeting. He tried to think of ways it could have gone better, but the decisions were now final.

He had tried to convince the council to have Hiccup serve a sentence of less than a year of exile. Unfortunately, Mildew had pointed out that the gods would never accept such a meager punishment for the outrageous act of befriending a dragon. All the other people had unanimously agreed with the sour old man, and, by the end, Stoick had to settle for two years of exile for his son. That had been the moment when he became painfully aware that, from now on, he was always going be in the strictest minority when it came to decisions concerning Hiccup.

Further discussions had added additional stipulations to Hiccup’s eventual acceptance back to Berk. When the boy’s sentence was finally served, he would then need to prove himself in the name of the gods. He would most likely have to challenge the best candidate for becoming the future chief. Probably Snotlout, considering he was a close relative of the current chief, though there were certainly other valiant and more experienced young men in the village. Only if Hiccup could somehow prove to be better than his rival, would he then be deemed worthy of regaining his status in Berk, along with his birthright.

Considering the scrawny boy’s brawn, or lack thereof, this last condition was going to be somewhat problematic, especially in the likely case of trial by combat, which was often customary. Nonetheless, Stoick decided he was going to cross that bridge when Hiccup was finally home again. He was glad enough that his idea of sending Spitelout on an expedition to retrieve his son and kill the Night Fury had been readily approved, probably in the hope of making Berk the sole Viking village that could secure the claim of slaying the rarest of dragons. After all, matters of status and image were very much an interest of the council members, especially when it came to contests of pride between the different villages of the Archipelago.

Last, it was decided that only once Hiccup was retrieved, assuming he didn’t return of his own accord first, would he then be officially sent off into exile on the council’s terms. Of course, Stoick had somewhat different plans for _how_ or _when_ Hiccup was going to serve his sentence, though he postponed that discussion to a later date as well.

The last order of the day had been Gobber the Belch. All council members were still convinced the man had been killed by Stoick, so they had all been unprepared to discuss the matter of his future punishment. Some had dismissively proposed his outlawry, others imprisonment. They seemed generally indifferent to the man’s fate, so, in the end, it was Stoick himself who made the decision.

After informing the council that his reason for not killing the man had not been a personal one (a necessary lie), he had reasoned that, with Gobber being the only, truly seasoned weaponsmith in the village, his services were going to be much too valuable during the impending summer raids. Therefore, he stipulated, Gobber would only need to spend three months in the prison cells, to pay for his betrayal. This way, he was going to be freed in July, just before dragons stroke hardest. All council members had quickly agreed to the reasonable arguments, too bored to discuss Gobber’s sentence after the much more interesting subject of a Night Fury.

As he walked, immersed in his thoughts and tribulations, Stoick realized he had reached the door of the chief’s house: his and Hiccup’s home. The larger-than-average abode stood proudly at the top of a small hill, offering a comprehensive view of the sea, the docks, the village, and its people. Every morning, a single glance out of that very door revealed the full scale of the chief’s responsibilities, which, at the moment, seemed all so very trivial.

Stoick didn’t get inside right away. Instead, he indulged in one last glance towards the glowing, orange shades cast by the setting sun on the horizon. Maybe he would see the black dot in the sky again, maybe he would see it getting closer this time. Hopefully he would have his son back sooner than expected, but all he could see was a spotless, colorful sunset.

With renewed disappointment, Stoick opened his door and stepped inside. As he did, he nearly tripped on a metallic object on the floor. He picked it up and observed it, exploiting the last few rays of warm sunlight that accompanied him inside his dark home. The cold, concave object was still wet from the previous rainfall, and it glimmered in his hands. The finish was polished, almost a mirror.

However, try as he might, Stoick couldn’t make out his own full reflection on the metallic surface, for the image became more distorted and blurred the more he looked at it. He tried to adjust its symmetry, twisting the two protruding horns on each side, but it was to no avail. It was the moisture in his eyes that blurred the image.

When he couldn’t bear to look at it any longer, he finally pressed Hiccup’s horned helmet to his chest with one large hand, and closed the door behind him with the other. He imagined his son taking the time to leave his traditional helmet on his doorway, before flying away from Berk on the back of the black dragon.

Stoick’s previous rage was now completely exhausted, and it was punctually replaced by the deepest regret, and the devious seed of depression. Still hugging his son’s prize in his hand, in relative darkness, he spontaneously climbed the stairs to Hiccup’s bedroom, a place he hardly ever visited.

Hiccup’s space was orderly. Despite the dimness of the room, a narrow strip of parchment stood out on the boy’s otherwise empty desk. Stoick picked it up, smearing some blood on its smooth surface. Just then, he noticed his bleeding hands. The skin on his knuckles was peeled off, most likely from punching Gobber too many times; as a weathered fighter, he had completely ignored the familiar injury.

_‘I can’t kill dragons. I have no choice but to leave Berk. I’ll be fine. I’m sorry I couldn’t make you proud of me. Goodbye.’_

Stoick read the few words over and over. The runes were neatly written by calm and careful hands; their calligraphy, unlike their meaning, was rather beautiful. He kept reading those words as he sat on Hiccup’s small wooden bed.

_‘...Goodbye.’_ the letter’s ending read. This message revealed that Hiccup had been planning to leave before the fight with the Monstrous Nightmare. Astrid had been telling the truth. She had actually thwarted Hiccup’s plan to leave unnoticed. Alas, she had merely forced him to delay his escape, for Gobber had still managed to grant his son’s wish.

After reading the boy’s note for what could have been a hundred times, Stoick let the piece of parchment fall from his hands and onto the floor. He focused on Hiccup’s ceremonial helmet again, one of amy pieces of Gobber’s handiwork, fashioned from half of his late wife’s breastplate. The object, he realized, had suddenly become a symbol of all that Stoick had lost, for it connected the three people in his life who he cherished the most, and who could not be by his side anymore. Eventually, as he sat on his son’s bed, alone in Hiccup’s dark room, he failed to suppress his emotion.

“I tried to protect him Val,” he whispered. “I tried to do the right thing. I even threatened the council. I tried to talk to him. He wouldn’t listen. He never listens to me. Only you Val. He’d always listen to you. My sweet... sweet Valka.”

Stoick looked up, through and beyond the planks of wood of the ceiling, raising his voice. “I’m sorry for what I said to him. I know you heard me even there in Valhalla. Please don’t hate me Val. I _will_ make this right. I’ll bring him back. I promise. But… if you are there with Odin, or even if you’re with Freya, tell them… I could use their help.” He sighed deeply.

_I will make this right._ He repeated in his mind, a desperate attempt to strengthen his resolve. He had to handle the situation with the very stoicism he was famed for, and, once his son was home, he’d pay better attention to him. He’d train Hiccup personally. He’d teach him how to be a good chief. He’d help disillusion the boy’s distorted ideas about dragons, for which Stoick now blamed himself.

_I’ll make a man out of him yet. A true Viking._ _Even if I have to swim across the archipelago myself!_

He got up, wiping his tears and gazing one more time upon the reflective surface of the boy’s helmet.

The day would surely come, Stoick could somehow feel, when, one way or another, he was going to be proud of his son.


	9. Fly to Live

**(Hiccup)**

 

The rain had ceased, and a blue sky was visible again through broken clouds, which Hiccup tried to avoid as he rode on the dragon’s back. He was following the most sunlit path he could find, for his clothes were wet, and the wind cold against them.

His heart was still beating fast inside his chest, perhaps because, as he was flying out of the arena, he had almost fallen to his death. Even during his last moments in his village, he had managed to make a fool of himself.

Fortunately, he had gained control of the stirrup just before plunging down that crevice under the bridge, and into the rocky sea, praying nobody had noticed. Most importantly, he hadn’t fallen off Toothless. He was not wearing his harness after all. The makeshift flying-vest was still in Gobber’s forge, still hidden behind that counter, where Hiccup had tossed it, just before being discovered by the blacksmith. He had forgotten about it, even as he was retrieving the basket, but he could no longer go back for it, nor did he feel the need to. With the exception of today’s hurried escape, he hardly needed the harness anymore; his dragon-riding skills had improved enough since his first flight.

With Gobber’s heavy basket now tied to the saddle, Hiccup and Toothless flew towards the first deserted island south of Berk. The islet could be seen from the shores of the village as a faint shape on the horizon. Of course, high as he was in the sky, Hiccup could make out his first destination much more clearly. Where he was going to go afterwards, he didn’t yet know, nor did he have the strength of will to think about it.

All Hiccup had the will to do as they flew was look back. The determination he had felt whilst he had first considered leaving his home for his ‘little vacation’ was now but a strange memory. A stranger’s memory. The memory of a fool, most likely.

Had he really ever expected a happy outcome to this? Could he possibly be so naive? And had he really been stupid enough to let Astrid run all the way back to the village? Had he truly betrayed everyone?

Hiccup could not yet fully fathom the situation he had put himself in, his mind still in a panicked daze. He did however manage to recall what his father had said in the prisons, and his destiny became painfully obvious. Back then, the words had been all anger and noise, a crazed, mindless threat, but they now sounded clear and hard as polished steel, a promise, heavy as an anvil on his chest:

_‘If you don’t want me to tie you to a mast and sail you off to Thor knows where to rot till the end of your days, then…’_ He did not wish to recall the rest.

If his father had truly meant what he had said (and Stoick the Vast always did), then there could be no doubt: Hiccup had surely been banished for life the very moment he had taken off, fleeing from his trial. He was now an outcast, destined to a lifetime of exile. He could no longer go back, not now that everyone knew about Toothless, not without dooming his friend, and most likely himself too.

And yet, while it did hurt to realize that dreadful fact, what ultimately made Hiccup’s gut sink, was the memory of his father’s very last shout:

_‘You either kill that fuckin’ beast, Hiccup, or you are no longer my son!’_

The phrase still echoed heavily in Hiccup’s ears, pulsing like the pain of a fresh wound. Being exiled was one thing, _but that..._ That had been a threat of disownment, a threat Stoick was certainly going to follow through now.

To say it had been unexpected would have been a huge understatement. Even murder was often not enough to grant such punishment. In fact, no man or woman had ever been disowned by their family in Hiccups’ lifetime, though a couple had been exiled or killed for their crimes. After all, most Vikings would sooner suffer execution. Disownment, however, was a punishment that stood on a completely different level. It was meant to deprive a person of their dignity and heritage. Of course, a disowned man was also an exiled man, and an exiled man, this far north, was also a man doomed to a slow and pathetic death, a death with no honor, without weapons, without the hope of Valhalla.

Trying to reach out for some consolation, Hiccup began to think, to hope, that perhaps he was doing his father a favor by giving him reason to disown him. He was doing the right thing for everyone. Never again would the proud chief of the Hairy Hooligans have to feel humiliated or embarrassed as he faced the other villages, and their relative chiefs, bragging about their strong, muscular sons (and sometimes daughters), valiant, promising leaders of their great tribes. It would be easier for his father to deal with the other chiefs’ pity for having no son, rather than an incompetent or traitorous one.

Alas, the idea that his father was going to be secretly relieved by this, turned out to be no great source of comfort. In fact, it only made Hiccup feel worse. Perhaps because, deep down, he suspected that it wasn’t true; that maybe Stoick still loved him in some unspoken way, as Gobber had suggested.

But, no, he could not bring himself to believe that either.

_What loving father talks to his only son like that?_ _He only demands obedience. He’d be better off with a slave than a son!_

In the end, Hiccup could find no consolation at any possible thought concerning his father, so he decided never to think about the man again. It was the only way for him to breathe.

Absorbed as he was in that whirlwind of distressing thoughts, Hiccup had ignored his friend’s warbles of concern. The dragon finally turned his head back mid-flight, and cast a worried look at his rider.

“Sorry, bud’,” Hiccup said, “I just… _There_. Let’s land over there.”

They had finally reached Thor Rock.

The island (if one could call it such) was comprised by two stony hills, and a thin, grassy clearing between them. Few trees, molded by the strong winds, fought to keep their roots embedded in the rock and muddy sand. The land’s shape resembled a crescent, forming a small natural harbor, where a pebbled beach provided temporary shelter for ships to wait out storms.

Hiccup and Toothless landed on a smaller clearing atop one of the two hills, between a wall of boulders and a steep sea-cliff. The grass was drier up there, the rocks behind them provided shelter from the wind, and the height gave them a broader view of the northern horizon. Hiccup dismounted and removed the weighty basket from Toothless’ back. He also untied the saddle and prosthetic fin, which the dragon had been continuously wearing for the past day. They were starting to chafe the more tender parts of his leathery skin, where there were fewer scales, especially on the scarred side of his tail.

After untangling the dragon from the multitude of straps and buckles, Hiccup found himself not knowing what else to do next. He was at a loss, facing an abrupt, almost unmanageable amount of freedom. What did an outcast do?

Hiccup felt the sudden urge to keep himself active. He had to do something productive, something that could put off, for as long as possible, the looming feelings of loss, rejection, and fear, threatening to overwhelm him all at once. To think leaving Berk had actually been his first choice. But, of course, he knew, leaving had always been the only way to protect Toothless. He had simply never truly begun to consider the consequences of being permanently homeless.

He decided to find some firewood. It was a good way to keep his mind occupied, he thought. He was still cold and wet from the previous downpour. He needed to make a fire.

His eyes spotted a small cluster of mostly lifeless trees, twisted and bent, with barely a leaf upon them. He broke a few of the smaller branches and piled them in his hands; Toothless came silently to help with the bigger ones. The dragon had gotten used to the human habit of lighting fires to keep warm, and would always offer his help, gathering wood for his human after their winter-flights.

Hiccup began to stack the wood, and surrounded the makeshift fireplace with stones to keep the fire from spreading. He tried to arrange the sticks to form a cone, so they wouldn’t lay flat on the ground, but the curvy, deformed wood of those trees made the task slightly more challenging than he had expected. In a sudden fit of frustration, Hiccup kicked the woodpile, scattering the twigs on the grass.

He walked away, unsure of why he had done that. He didn’t yell or shout, nor did he respond to Toothless’ concerned coo. The dragon did not insist, though; he watched patiently as Hiccup walked towards the cliff’s rocky edge, and sat down, feet dangling dangerously in the precipice.

Hiccup stayed there, trying to prevent his mind from thinking. He tried focusing on the sea, counting its infinite little waves, one by one. Yet, when his gaze finally reached the distance, Hiccup saw the silhouette of Berk’s familiar mountains on the horizon, and found he couldn’t ignore his emotions any longer.

The feeling came like the waves below. It was something completely new, something he had never experienced before. It was a quiet, soft kind of panic, creeping slowly inside of him and, almost gently, choking his heart. Like an uncomfortable void between his lungs, a heat that made breathing feel like an annoying chore. It felt as if his organs were being slowly pulled down to his gut. Hiccup wrapped his arms around his stomach, hoping it would cancel out the strange sensation.

He felt deflated, like a punctured soul, but at the same time, somewhere around that emptiness, in his shoulders, his fingers, his muscles, he felt anxious. He felt afraid, alone. And all that dreadful mixture of emotions, he now knew, sprouted from a simple realization. From that day, his life would never be the same again.

It was the finality of it that made everything so much worse. And yet it was different from the time his mother had died, possibly because he had been younger then, though he couldn’t really say. The only thing Hiccup knew for sure was that, if Toothless hadn’t been there with him, a few paces from his back, letting out the occasional worried coo, the sea-beaten rocks below his feet would have looked disturbingly more appealing.

The sun, setting, began to shower Berk with warm colors. Hiccup sighed to clear his head, then found himself focusing once again on the island’s hazy shadow in the distance, searching for temporary solace in the memories. Of course, he was now discovering a newfound fondness for the place.

On the island of Berk, despite his difficult relationship with his father, and with most of the other villagers, Hiccup had still always felt protected, and his blunders were always made right. At home, someone would always pay some attention to him, someone could still listen to him, advise him even, however callously. His life there might not have been particularly fulfilling for the most part, but it had been safe, and normal.

Now, he had lost the only place of his he could go back to, a place where he would be fed or clothed, no matter what. Everything had changed this morning. Food was no longer going to be the certainty it had always been. How was he going to survive? Hiccup had no experience of living in the wilderness beside his brief escapades at the cove. He was no _real_ Viking, and now even those who had begun having hopes for him knew the truth of it.

The people in the village might have disliked or pitied him before his false achievements in dragon-training, but now, with the exclusion of Gobber, they surely hated him. Even his father. And even Astrid. _Especially_ Astrid.

He could not go back anymore, he was an outcast and a traitor; they had the law-sanctioned right to kill him on sight if he returned. And only Thor knew what they would do to Toothless.

Hiccup couldn’t let himself think about that. He knew he had to move on; he had secretly known since the day of his first flight on a Night Fury’s back, the day that he would always remember as the happiest of his life.

Still, the emptiness he now felt, and the magnitude of this change, ultimately overwhelmed him. Choking painful sobs in his chest, his stomach tied in a heavy knot, tears silently wet Hiccup’s lips as he stared north, towards Berk: the place he could no longer call home.

* * *

Hiccup woke up slowly, enveloped in warm darkness. He didn’t remember falling asleep, nor did he remember Toothless dragging him away from the dangerous edge of the cliff. He realized he was resting within the Night Fury’s embrace, wrapped by the dragon’s wings, with one paw for a pillow and the other three tied in firm hug around him. It was the first time he had slept like that. He would rarely sleep with the dragon, and when he did, he would only take short naps using Toothless’ side to support his head.

Being cocooned inside those black wings was actually quite pleasant. Hiccup felt warm and protected, shielded from the outside world, and lulled by the steady drumming of the dragon’s powerful heart, and the intense sound of his lungs. He felt a surge of gratitude towards the Night Fury for the affectionate gesture. A kind of gesture he wasn’t much used to in his life, but that he very much needed now.

With his eyes still closed, Hiccup carefully shifted his position, and pressed his cheek on Toothless’ large chest; it was his own small way to thank the dragon, but also a better way to hear the soothing heartbeat beneath the tough, warm scales.

_I still have Toothless,_ Hiccup thought.

Following the previous day’s misery, the notion came almost as a surprise, even though it shouldn’t have. Hiccup had nearly forgotten about the dragon, despite the fact that all he had done had been for his sake, and, in a way, he had even succeeded. Perhaps what he had needed the day before was only some sleep. After all, he hadn’t had a proper rest in two days.

Feeling Hiccup’s movement, Toothless stirred too, and he finally woke up as well. He lifted his wing to check on his rider, flooding Hiccup with light.

“Oh _gods…_ ” Hiccup complained, shielding his eyes as he got up.

It wasn’t morning yet, but the dragon’s wings provided a surprisingly deep darkness in comparison.

“Morning bud’,” he said when he finally got used to the early light.

Toothless responded with a long, soft purr.

The sun was still below the horizon, and a faint pink-blue haze coated every inch of landscape, even the sea, which was so calm, it almost perfectly mirrored the sky’s colors, along with some of its brightest stars.

When the dragon’s warmth evaporated from Hiccup’s still damp clothes, the morning chill seeped rapidly inside of him, replacing the previous fuzzy comfort with brief shivers, alongside some of the emotions that had tormented him the previous day. Once outside his friend’s embrace, he felt exposed again to the harsh reality of his situation. Though it wasn’t as bad as before, he expected coping with his departure into exile was not going to be an easy task.

_Astrid was probably right: I am a spoiled crybaby after all,_ Hiccup thought dejectedly. But at least he was feeling somewhat better, and definitely more rested.

He moved away from the makeshift camp, telling Toothless to wait there. He walked down a few rocks, in search for a more private place where to relieve himself. When he got back, his shivering had intensified, so, with the dragon’s help, he decided to light the fire which he had failed to prepare the previous day. He then sat by it, hoping to dry the lingering moisture from his clothes, and he resumed gazing towards Berk’s misty profile in the distance. It didn’t feel quite right to turn around yet.

When the sun sneaked from under the sea, shyly declaring the beginning of the day, Hiccup’s belly began to grumble. Toothless rose, his pointy ears standing up, suddenly alarmed by the unfamiliar growls.

“It’s just my stomach bud’,” Hiccup explained, smiling. “It’s been a day since I ate anything. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Toothless produced a low, worried warble.

“It’s all right. I’m not really hungry.”

The dragon barked once, snapping his teeth.

“I mean it. I’m fine,” Hiccup said, but Toothless’ nostrils puffed a cloud of warm smoke onto his face. The pouting Night Fury hobbled away. Hiccup coughed, but otherwise ignored his friend for a while, until the noises behind him forced him to abandon his distant brooding.

Toothless had opened Gobber’s basket, spilling all the contents on the grass with a clatter. He was sniffing at each object.

“What are you doing?” Hiccup asked.

When the dragon found what he was searching for, he picked it up by his teeth and carried it to his friend. It was a cloth-wrapped bundle, tied with a piece of string.

“What’s this?” Hiccup asked as he undid the knot and opened the bundle, revealing about a dozen slivers of fine, dried yak meat. Hiccup hadn’t put any food in his basket, so this had to be one of Gobber’s additions. Nonetheless, Hiccup’s stomach was still clenched with sorrow.

“I told you, I’m not really hungry. You can have it if you want.”

Toothless growled in response. It wasn’t an angry snarl by any means, but any kind of growl from a Night Fury would sound at least a little bit  menacing.

“Fine _,_ ” Hiccup muttered unhappily. He began tearing small pieces of meat with his teeth.

That particularly fine batch had been cured with spices. It was still tough, but not as tasteless as the common stuff. When Hiccup realized this, his latent appetite got the best of him, and he began attacking Gobber’s supply.

He even offered a slice to his friend, who didn’t seem quite able to make up his mind on whether he liked the treat or not. He kept chewing for a while, presenting Hiccup with first a bemused look, then a completely disorientated one. Hiccup could not help but grin at the dragon’s hysterical expressions.

When Toothless finally swallowed, he stared at his rider with utter astonishment and condemnation.

_‘How can you eat this stuff?!’_ He seemed to be asking.

Hiccup laughed. It was a long, liberating laugh, fueled by the Night Fury’s funny warbles of disapproval.

Before long, Hiccup’s hunger was satisfied, his clothes were as dry as they’d get, and he was wiping a tear of mirth from his eyes. Suddenly, his reasons for grief appeared much more manageable. The notion that Toothless would be there for him had finally become an encouraging certainty. Hiccup brushed a grateful hand on the dragon’s head.

“Is it completely crazy of me to realize, after all that has happened, how lucky I still am for having you?”

Toothless merely blinked in response, and nuzzled the boy’s familiar palm with his snout. He then turned away, and, boredly, he began licking his paw.

Hiccup followed the movement, and spotted a shallow, but still bleeding gash on the dragon’s paw. Toothless was cleaning it.

“Where did you get _that_?” Hiccup asked with sudden apprehension. He understood a moment later; it had been Astrid’s axe, which she had thrown at Toothless in the cove. The dragon had parried the weapon, but he hadn’t walked away unscathed by the girl’s flawless throw.

“I’m sorry,” Hiccup said. Though it hadn’t been his fault, he considered himself somewhat responsible for Astrid’s actions, partly because he still felt like defending the blonde girl, despite what she had done.

“I wish she wasn’t so impulsive. Does it hurt?”

Toothless huffed nonchalantly, an almost perfect draconic translation of the sentiment: _‘What? This? This is nothing.’_

The young Viking went to the open basket, and looked for any healing supplies. He hadn’t packed much, but he was glad to find that Gobber had been much more provident than he had. In fact, the number of objects on the ground revealed that the blacksmith had thought of almost everything; or, more likely, it was Hiccup who hadn’t thought enough when he had first decided to leave. His original basket had been much emptier.

Hiccup found the boiled bandages inside a leather satchel, and one small, wooden box, containing about a spoonful of salve. He smelled it, and recognized it as Gothi’s famous Elder-leaf and Yarrow ointment. Hiccup returned to the dragon.

“Here, let me see.”

Toothless pulled his paw closer.

“Come on. This will make sure the wound doesn’t go bad.”

Toothless groaned in response.

“Please? Just let me…” Hiccup sat in front of the dragon, who did not resist when his rider lifted the heavy paw with his hands, and placed it upon his crossed legs to examine it.

Hiccup was relatively used to seeing small wounds up close, though mostly on himself. For some odd reason, it was slightly more disturbing when the wound was on someone else. Nonetheless, he applied the precious ointment along the cut, then wrapped a long piece of bandage tightly around it.

“It’s just the two of us, bud’. You’re all I’ve got now,” Hiccup said as he tried to tie the bandage. He remembered to make a cut alongside the last strip, tie a first knot, and then wrap one part around from the other side, to make a final knot with the remaining strand. He had seen Gothi do it a few times of course, but Hiccup only remembered how it was done because Gobber had often done it to him when he got hurt at the forge (a rather common occurrence). The blacksmith would always leave the final knot to Hiccup, since, with only one hand, he could hardly make it himself.

“ _There_.” Hiccup said when he was done, and the dragon promptly repaid him by brushing a thankful, wet tongue on his face. Hiccup wasn’t given enough time to dodge; he could only shut his eyes and mouth. He then wiped the saliva away with his sleeves.

“No, no, thank _you_ ,” he muttered, trying to sound annoyed. He could never truly get used to being washed with dragon slobber, though he couldn’t help but smile every time.

Finally, Toothless rose and began hopping around their rudimentary camp, before he playfully assumed his usual _‘_ time to fly’ stance, with his shoulders bowed and his rump raised upwards. He flicked his wings expectantly; he was waiting for his rider to put on the saddle and fin.

Hiccup considered it for a moment, trying to reassess his feelings, but, soon enough, his mind was made up. It was time to go. It was time to leave the hazy silhouette of Berk behind, and find a place of their own, some warmer island in the south, where they could fly all day and discover new lands, safe from axes, and bolas, and angry Vikings.

Hoping such place existed somewhere in the world, waiting for them, Hiccup refilled Gobber’s basket, and found the improved tailfin, storing the spare one. He carefully equipped Toothless with the prosthetic, saddle, and basket.

Hiccup mounted. He patted the dragon’s side twice. “Ready?” He asked, after directing a final wistful look towards Berk, certain that it was going to be his last.

Toothless barked enthusiastically.

“Let’s go, bud’.”

With tenuously renewed hope, they took to the skies. Through forceful beats of the Night Fury’s black wings, they climbed higher and higher, leaving even the clouds behind, until there was only the sun and moon above them. Both celebrated their freedom with a liberating cry into the cold winds. Hiccup did not care how childish his voice still sounded for his age; there was no reason to care about such things anymore. He was an outcast now.

When they soared to a new, ear-popping height, Toothless looked back teasingly. Hiccup knew what was coming, and gladly braced himself. He hugged the dragon’s scaly neck, and closed his eyes, before the earth’s pull was suddenly no more.

Toothless dove, falling and twisting, spiraling and turning, performing every sort of insane stunts, telling the world, the air was his domain, and now a human’s too.

Whenever Hiccup opened his eyes, he saw only sky, then sea, then sky again, and clouds, and the bright yellow sun, or the pale moon. And then frothy waves, like an army of sheep below… or was it above them? There was no more up or down. The horizon was spinning without control, but Hiccup was not afraid. He embraced his friend, and he knew, finally, that he was born for this: to be like a dragon. And like a dragon, he was going to fly, and live, and be free.

** END OF ACT I **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. This was a bit cheesy. Perhaps because it contains the very paragraph that, about a year ago, made me actually decide to write my first fanfic. This is where this story began for me, and this is where the adventure begins for Hiccup! Thanks for reading!


	10. The Price of Freedom

**ACT II: OUTCAST**

**(Hiccup)**

 

Much as it pained him to admit it, Hiccup knew, deep down, that he could actually be a rather clumsy boy, sometimes frivolous, often careless. He had been told so plenty of times. However, Hiccup also knew that, starting today, having been probably disowned, and most certainly exiled, he needed to become less of all those things. He needed to urgently learn how to fend for himself; how to survive.

Yet, despite the weight of this new and vital responsibility, he was not feeling the same grief and panic that had overwhelmed him the day before. They had not disappeared, but Hiccup had managed to force those feelings aside out of sheer urgency, storing them with a lock of faint determination, which he had found within himself, helped by the reassuring presence of his trusted dragon-friend.

Hiccup still sighed at intervals, a sinking feeling in his chest reminding him of the gravity of the situation, but he also caught himself smiling a few times as he flew, thinking about his future of boundless freedom and independence. In fact, he felt cautiously excited at the thought.

Hoping his pleasant excitement was bound to last, Hiccup told Toothless to land on the next island on their way south. Boar Head Island was its name.

Boar Head was considerably larger than Thor Rock, but, like Thor Rock, it was also uninhabitable. There was no constant source of fresh water, and it was too small to accommodate any kind of wildlife, not to mention a whole village. Still, after their first cathartic flight as outcasts, Hiccup wanted to take a small break to gather his thoughts and review the contents of his basket, the only belongings he now possessed.

They landed on a sandy beach, an unusual thing among their islands, where harsh pebbles or grass-covered mud would often unceremoniously meet water, at least whenever rocky cliffs did not violently dive into the sea instead.

As soon as he stepped on the sand, Hiccup removed his boots on an almost involuntary whim. He would never waste a chance to enjoy the rare pleasure of feeling the small cool grains envelop his feet and caress his toes.

Hiccup began to empty the basket. He considered its contents, laying each object neatly side by side.

“So, Toothless, let’s see what we’ve got here,” he said, letting the empty basket roll away, but only after shaking it upside down, to make sure nothing was left inside.

The dragon ignored him, and instead launched himself towards the open basket. His head couldn’t fit through the opening, of course, no matter how many times he tried, but the Night Fury seemed to find the playful activity strangely endearing.

“Hey, careful with that!” Hiccup exclaimed. “Don’t break it! We’re still going to need it, bud’.”

The dragon whined unhappily, but he shortly found another activity with which to entertain himself. He went fishing.

Hiccup was going over his belongings thoughtfully. He found some of his own clothes: a pair of woolen breeches and two shirts, as well as two pairs of linen smallclothes. In addition, there was a wool blanket rolled and tied with plenty of rope, a large fur pelt, two large pieces of cloth, a hunting knife, an axe for chopping wood, the boiled bandages, and his precious journal, his charcoal-point pencil tucked between two pages.

Amongst the objects Gobber had added, there was a brass pot for cooking, as well as two spoons and two wooden bowls. (Hiccup slapped himself mentally for forgetting to consider such basic tools.) Then, the remaining dried yak-meat, and two cured-bladder waterskins, one containing water, the other mead. That last one had probably been an oversight on Gobber’s part, for Hiccup did not like inebriating drinks.

Finally, there was the tiny box with Goth’s salve, most of which Hiccup had already used on Toothless’ large paw. Gobber had also added two more of his own personal effects, which Hiccup would have never expected to receive, not to mention deserve.

The first was a small satchel, containing nine coins of silver. It might not sound like much, but silver was a most valuable gift, especially considering Gobber was not particularly rich. After all, he regularly chose to have his wares and repairs paid in food or materials; he rarely asked for the softer metals, regardless of their worth. Thus, with the exception of the chiefs, most of the coin in the Archipelago (particularly silver, and gold almost exclusively) belonged either to the few landowners, or the even fewer merchants.

The second gift Hiccup found in his basket, left him even more astonishment. It was Gobber’s precious grooming kit, which he used for his long, blonde, braided mustache. Berk’s master blacksmith valued his mustache braids probably more than his limbs, and he already had quite few of those. Those braids were his pride. Of course, it was not uncommon for Viking men to take particular care of their facial hair, but this was twice as true for Gobber.

As soon as he saw one of his mentor’s most treasured belongings, Hiccup realized he already missed the man. Gobber had truly been like a father to him, or maybe, even more surprisingly, he had replaced the mother Hiccup had lost, and which he had desperately needed during his childhood.

Feeling he had always taken the man for granted, Hiccup was overcome by a sudden wave of both gratitude and sorrow. So much so that a few droplets escaped his eyes, which he hastily dried with his sleeve before Toothless could see him crying again. He did not want that to happen again.

Hiccup unrolled Gobber’s leather kit, revealing some of its contents: a razor, a pair of scissors, a brush, a bone comb, and a small mirror, which he picked up. He found his own image reflected, and, for an instant, he was surprised at what he saw. There was dirt and dried dragon-spit smeared unevenly over his face, a bloody scratch on his cheek he could not recall getting, and a smaller one on his forehead, and, finally, dried tears were drawing ominous lines under his eyes.

At first glance, he thought he looked somewhat scary, which, for a moment, gave him a refreshing sense of pride. Maybe if he also had a beard, he thought, he could have looked like a dangerous outcast, as was expected of those living in exile.

Unfortunately, small as he still was, Hiccup knew his body was depressingly wanting when it came to a man’s growth. He expected it to be a very long time before he could sport or any kind of beard, if ever. In fact, Hiccup had always been behind when it came to growing up in general, especially in relation to his larger, taller, and more muscular peers. Much to Hiccup’s chagrin, even Fishlegs’ voice had long begun to break, and the stout boy was actually a few months younger than him.

“ _Aaarrrr!!_ ” Hiccup growled savagely at the mirror, attempting his most feral expression. He immediately felt ashamed for even trying. A cat could look scarier than that. It was no use. He could still clearly see his true, childlike figure underneath the dirt and dried blood.

After washing his face with seawater, Hiccup inspected his reflection again. Lean, pale, faintly freckled features, except for his slightly puffy cheeks, which hadn’t yet lost their baby fat. He was nothing like a _real_ outcast, not by a long shot, but at least he had an impressive Night Fury by his side, he thought, who more than compensated for his lack of brawn.

Hiccup put his belongings back inside the basket, when Toothless finally returned. The dragon, without any kind of warning, happily regurgitated an almost-whole cod on Hiccup’s bare feet. A heartfelt gift.

“Oh! Ugh, uhmm… no thanks, bud’. I… I’m full,” Hiccup said, patting his stomach for emphasis, whilst trying to conceal his involuntary grimace of disgust with a smile, hoping Toothless would not notice.

“Maybe another time,” He added for good measure.

The Night Fury slurped the cod back, clearly sulking because his gift had been refused, but Hiccup had already eaten raw fish dressed in dragon’s stomach juices once, and he very much preferred not to savor that sort of delicacy too often (lest the taste became tedious and bland upon his palate, of course).

“Let’s just reserve barfed fish for, say… special occasions. Eh, bud’?” He proposed in a half-apologetic, half-sarcastic voice. He then approached the dragon, and began scratching him behind the biggest one of his six long, pointy ears.

Toothless leaned gladly into the affectionate hand, and all was immediately forgiven. Hiccup kept indulging him for a while, enjoying the funny expressions his scaly friend produced between satisfied chirps and purrs.

How could such a fearsome predator make such adorable noises?

“C’mon, bud’.” Hiccup finally said, patting the dragon’s muscular side. “We must find a better place than this rock, don’t we?”

After being prodded on the cheek by the dragon’s moist snout, Hiccup fastened the basket on the saddle, wore back his boots (after scraping the sand and half-digested cod fluids off his feet) and both he and the Night Fury were off into the sky once more.

The sun had barely started its slow descent for the day, when the flying duo spotted the next island. Hiccup already knew the place. He had visited it twice in his life, though he only remembered the second time.

Not two years had passed since he had been brought along by his father to attend the Thing, a very important meeting between the Viking chiefs of the Northern Alliance. Hiccup remembered hating the experience, especially the stares of pity towards himself, and of commiseration towards his dad. There was finally undeniable proof that the highly esteemed Stoick the Vast had fathered a ‘hiccup’; the rumors were true. Hiccup had never wanted to attend any other meetings after that, and, perhaps unsurprisingly, his father had never proposed again.

Still, as far as Hiccup had understood, the Northern Alliance was mainly a non-aggression pact between the northern tribes of the Archipelago: Hairy Hooligans, Meatheads, Berserkers, Bog Burglars, Hysterics, and a few others. It also entailed a few trade deals, but he knew next to nothing about those.

The pact had been signed and upheld for generations, mostly because the northern tribes already had enough problems dealing with dragon attacks during the summer; raiding each other would have benefited no one. Among the northernmost people, the Outcasts were obviously excluded, and only the Lava Louts had willingly refused to partake in the alliance, for reasons that Hiccup had never fully understood.

“Let’s go higher, Toothless, otherwise they might see us,” Hiccup yelled against the strong winds as they approached Meathead Island. “Better not land too close to the village.”

The dragon carefully circled the island, keeping his distance from the more populated areas, while hiding in the occasional cloud. They finally landed in a welcoming, grassy clearing against the feet of the main mountain, where a tiny, silent waterfall dribbled from the rocks, and then lost itself as a rivulet into the thick forest.

Meathead Island was smaller than Berk, but still plenty large, and rich in both resources and population. From where they had landed, Hiccup could still see the smoke of the village’s hearths raise into the sky. It was a strangely comforting sight, even though he knew he should not get any closer.

Hiccup made camp, putting slightly more effort in it than he had back on Thor Rock. He freed the dragon from the contraption and saddle, then laid his large pelt on the ground, and sat upon it, near the unlit fireplace; he wasn’t cold enough yet.

Hiccup pulled out his journal, and began to contemplate what to do next, holding his pencil between his upper lip and nose, and humming thoughtfully as Toothless napped on the soft grass.

 _We can’t stay on this island for too long, or we’ll be discovered,_ Hiccup thought. _We should probably leave in the morning._

Yet, Hiccup didn’t know much about the geography of the southern Archipelago, and, after Meathead Island, he would be practically lost. He kept thinking about his options until the sun began to set. He was even considering sneaking into the village after nightfall to find a map, a very rare item indeed, when his stomach began making hungry noises.

The dragon’s sensible ears picked up on the sound, and he rose from his slumber, ready to provide for his rider. Toothless approached the basket again, reaching for the dried meat, but he was hastily stopped.

“Toothless wait, you big, scaly mother-hen,” Hiccup said with an entertained smirk. “I’ll find something else. Dried meat doesn’t spoil, so let’s keep it for emergencies. Maybe I’ll search for something in the forest.”

As soon as he spoke those words, Hiccup remembered one very important detail: he had no hunting experience. He was never invited during hunts, mostly because, the couple of times he _had_ been invited, he had messed up in some outrageous way, making the hunt a pain for everyone involved.

Fortunately, Toothless had enough hunting experience for the both of them, and he instantly darted off into the woods with a determined scowl, leaving Hiccup startled.

“No wait, I didn’t mean to…” But the dragon was already off to hunt in his stead.

Hiccup had already cooked fish which had been caught by the dragon, but he had never _sent_ Toothless to actually hunt on his own. Of course, he didn’t really mind having a personal hunter, but he knew that, at some point, he was going to have to learn how to fend for himself.

 _Maybe next time,_ he decided.

Hiccup had barely enough time to refill his waterskin from the fresh rivulet, and take out the hunting knife, that Toothless was already back with three, remarkably plump, and still faintly bleeding rabbits hanging from his teeth.

“Whoa, bud’! That was _fast_! Is someone selling game in the forest, or did you actually hunt these?”

The dragon ignored his joke, and dropped the rabbits at his feet, brandishing a goofy, gummy smile, with the disturbing addition of quite a few blood smudges from the kill. Hiccup found the combination of blood and smiling somewhat puzzling, though the sentiment was clear: this was another heartfelt gift for his rider.

“Thanks, bud,” he said lovingly. “But I can’t eat three whole rabbits by myself. You take the other two. I can barely fit half in my stomach.”

Toothless nudged all three of the rabbits worriedly towards Hiccup, forcing him to insist a few times. Toothless yielded only once he was sure that his rider was telling the truth about his appetite, and took two of the rabbits back. He also lit the makeshift fireplace before he began to enjoy his raw meal.

Hiccup, on the other hand, stood motionless by the fire, kneeling with his knife in one hand, and the now bloodless rabbit hanging from the other. Something else finally occurred to him. He didn’t know how to skin or butcher a wild animal; he had never done it before. He had only seen others do it, and he had never paid too much attention to what he considered a gruesome process.

With fish, though, he had plenty of experience. Fish was easier for some reason. Fish didn’t have faces. Well... they did, but their eyes were in no way as expressive as the ones this dead rabbit suddenly appeared to have.

 _‘Don’t look into its eyes.’_ Hiccup recalled overhearing once; a piece of advice not meant for him, but that was apparently important, and now he understood why.

_Too late._

He realized he had begun feeling sorry for the animal, but he could not refuse the gift anymore, not the way Toothless was now looking at him. _‘Why aren’t you eating?’_ was most certainly what the expectant dragon was thinking.

“Oh, man…” Hiccup exhaled, laying the dead animal on the grass, belly up. “How am I supposed to eat you _now?_ ” He asked the rabbit, only to receive a disgruntled look from Toothless, of the same kind he’d receive from the people back on Berk whenever they used to berate him, saying: _‘Are ya daft boy?’_

“Yeah, yeah. I know… I’ll do it,” he told the dragon, who was still munching vigorously on his own catch, bones cracking between his teeth. Hiccup caressed the soft grey fur of the rabbit. It was still warm.

“Sorry, little fella.”

Hiccup picked up the knife, and surprised himself when his hands seemed to already know what to do. He had probably seen the process a thousand times in his village. He started from the rear legs, making circular cuts to the hide, and then along the thighs. He then removed the hide whole, _‘like one would a sock’,_ as he recalled someone saying; a piece of advice that, as with hunting or other daily matters, Hiccup had never been given himself.

He had to use all of his arm-muscles to achieve his first goal, but once the skin was gone, he felt a flicker of pride within him. Alas, the bad part was still to come, and to make matters worse, his hands had begun to shake. His rushed heartbeat was not helping either. Even their small fire suddenly seemed to have grown much hotter.

Biting the inside of his cheek to fight the threat of gagging, Hiccup started gutting the rabbit, remembering not to puncture the creature’s insides, or his meal would have become a mess. Yet, the mere sight of the white, translucent membranes of the flayed animal, holding such fragile organs together, made Hiccup gut-wrenchingly aware of how vulnerable his own inner anatomy was. He _really_ did not wish to see what he was doing, so he instinctively shut his eyes, before he began to cut the belly open.

 _‘Don’t close yer eyes when ya work, ya muttonhead! Ya’ll hurt yourself!’_ Gobber’s words came rushing back. The memory was _definitely_ advice that was meant for Hiccup.

Following his mentor’s suggestion, Hiccup forced at least one eye to look, for as long as he had to cut stuff open. Finally, he ripped away the innards in one go, trying not to think about what his hand was touching, but shuddering nonetheless at the dreadful feeling of slimy entrails between his fingers.

“ _Ugh!_ That was gross…” Hiccup said out loud, adding: “no offense little guy.”

He observed his work. The result, he found pleasantly surprising. It was much like what he had seen the women cook in the great hall, or sometimes outside their households, when the summer sun warmed Berk’s streets and backyards. Hiccup considered himself satisfied, and, after the unease in his gut had settled, he was met with a delightful feeling of accomplishment.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, right bud’?” He lied.

The Night Fury chuckled with his usual draconic snorts of derision. Hiccup ignored them. He was feeling too proud of himself at the moment. The sense of accomplishment was such a rare pleasure for him, that he became almost elated. For a single blissful instant, it felt like he could have achieved anything in the world.

“Alright, what’s next?”

Hiccup washed his hands by the waterfall. He then prepared a sturdy stick with which to support the rabbit upon the fire. It took a while, before the meat was properly cooked. Toothless had long consumed his own rabbits, and even the sun had completely plunged into the sea, letting the light of the stars and moon announce the arrival of nightfall.

When his meal was finally ready, Hiccup’s was pooling with saliva. Toothless studied him contentedly from across the fire as Hiccup took his first bite.

“Oh gods…” Hiccup muttered with a mouthful. “T’s really goof!”

He was actually talking aloud. Then, for a moment, he was lost in thought. He had always known the meat he ate at home came from actual, living, breathing creatures. Yet, why did it feel like he had just found out? Though he could not fully explain the reason, he began feeling strangely grateful to the small animal he was eating.

Despite the pungent smell from the butchering lingering unpleasantly on his fingers, the succulent, unspiced, unsalted meat tasted sweet inside his mouth. Could it be that his mind was playing tricks with him? It was as if the grisly, unfamiliar effort he had made to prepare the rabbit by himself had improved the taste tenfold.

 _How can something so gross and cruel produce something so tasty?_ Hiccup asked himself. He almost felt like crying again, although this time he couldn’t possibly fathom why. Something about that contradiction made him think he had been about to grasp some deeper truth about nature or life itself, but it had been merely a fleeting impression. Maybe he hadn’t yet lived enough to understand those kinds of intuitions, or maybe he was just going crazy; having too many heavily emotional moments in the past few days was probably beginning to take its toll.

Hiccup’s hunger abated quickly, but he forced himself to eat as much as he could of the rabbit. It didn’t feel right to discard any of that meat. Once his stomach could take no more food however, he cleaned the knife and washed his hands again, hoping the persistent smell would soon leave his fingers. Somehow, it was still strong and sharp around his nails. It smelled a bit like blood and death, and, well… life too.

Hiccup finally reached for the waterskin in his basket, and sat on his large pelt by the fire, leaning his back on the rocks behind him. He drank greedily from the waterskin, only to realize, after the second gulp, that he had picked the wrong bladder. The one he was holding contained mead.

Hiccup made a grimace of distaste. He didn’t like the taste of mead or ale, and he could never understand what made the strange, amber-colored liquid so precious in the eyes of all the other Vikings, especially adults.

 _Why would Gobber give me mead when he knows perfectly well I don’t drink it?!_ Hiccup thought, slightly offended by the bitter flavor. As soon as he did though, he felt ungrateful towards his mentor’s amazing generosity, particularly after he considered everything the man had done for him in the past few days. He owed the man both his best friend’s life, and most likely his own too. So, just as he had with the rabbit, Hiccup decided he wouldn’t let any of Gobber’s kindness go to waste. Thus, he gulped more of the bitter drink.

He didn’t drink much, yet, soon enough, he began to feel some of the inebriating effects. His cheekbones began to tingle pleasantly, his eyelids became heavier, and his lips felt like smiling; but, most of all, he felt like he could truly relax for the first time in days, perhaps even weeks. With Toothless’ reassuring presence by the warm, crackling fire, the wind caressing the treetops, the smell of pines and grass, and the stars cheering in the sky, it felt like something was finally right in the world.

Before long, Hiccup chose to reseal the bladder of mead, which, he decided, wasn’t half bad after all. Even the taste had improved after a few more sips, though he didn’t want to get drunk, for he wasn’t yet familiar with his tolerance. That proved to be a wise choice.

Still sober enough, Hiccup noticed Toothless worriedly raising his head; the dragon was scanning their surroundings with his slender ear-fins raised in attention.

“What ith it bud’-? Oh, man…” Hiccup found his lips weren’t quite responding as expected. The mead had made them feel somewhat heavy or swollen, though they weren’t really so; he checked with his fingers. Toothless got up and approached him apprehensively, sniffing his rider.

“Oh, ‘ts nothin’, don’t ya worry. I just drank s’m mead… maybe a lil too much; ‘ts quite goot actually! Ya should try it s’metime.” Hiccup made the offer with a large smile, lovingly patting the dragon’s snout. What he had just suggested sounded funnier than it should have in his head, so much so, it made him giggle.

Although Hiccup’s senses had turned a bit fuzzy, the drink’s appeal was quickly becoming clearer and clearer now that he’d overcome the taste-barrier. Gobber seemed suddenly wiser than Hiccup had given him credit for.

Toothless, however, was unconcerned by Hiccup’s impaired speech, or even his smell. He kept turning around and sniffing the air. There was something else.

When the dragon emitted a low growl towards the forest, Hiccup sprung up. He wobbled and stumbled a bit, but the lovely effects of the mead were nearly washed away and put aside by a sudden sense of alarm.

“Is someone out _here?!_ ”

The dragon looked back at him, and nodded. Someone was coming. Hiccup felt like slapping himself for his stupidity.

“The fire!” He hissed.

Even from their distance, the Meatheads had most certainly spotted the smoke of his small camp, and had sent a scouting party to check for trespassers; they were probably armed to the teeth!

Toothless, having understood his rider’s call, pawed the makeshift fireplace, until it was finally dark. Unfortunately, not dark enough to hide. The moon was high and full, shining over their clearing like a huge, pale-white torch. Hiccup’s chest was flooding with panic, which ignited sparks of energy through his limbs.

“We must go! Quick!” He said as he began gathering his belongings. he put everything hurriedly in the basket, then started to place the flying gear around Toothless. With the mead in his belly clouding his bearings, Hiccup had to force himself to concentrate so as not to fumble with the straps. He had to make it in time at all costs. Once he was done tightening the basket on the dragon’s saddle, even Hiccup’s human ears could hear the rustling noises from the forest.

“ _Shhh!_ ” A voice hissed, dangerously close.

“There!” A man shouted. “It’s just a dra-”

Hiccup mounted just in time, before five agile men, sporting axes, swords, and round shields, emerged from behind the trees, their faces completely aghast. Some had even lowered their weapons from the shocking sight.

“Toothless, go!” Yelled Hiccup, and the Night Fury shot upwards with his powerful wings, like no other dragon could. Hiccup was yanked back by the abrupt acceleration, but he was quite used to his friend’s impossible maneuvers, so he held on. He then looked down, as the small clearing grew smaller with their height. He could still hear the men shout below him.

“Odin, Thor, Freyr, and Freya! Someone is _riding_ that dragon!”

“Warn the village!”

“Don’t lose it! It could land somewhere else on the island!”

“Gunnar! Get the chief!”

Finally, Hiccup and Toothless rose too high to make out what the Meathead men were saying. When he was sure of their safety, the dragon smoothed their flight, and Hiccup sighed with relief, although he felt terribly disheartened. That’s what it meant to be both an outcast and a friend of dragons in the Archipelago.

_I need to get used to this, and be more careful._

With that in mind, he realized they couldn’t land anywhere else on the same island; it would have been too risky now that the Meatheads knew they were there. The moonlight was also not helping them conceal their flying trajectory, and the sky was free of clouds.

The only choice Hiccup had was to direct the dragon south, hoping they would soon find, with any luck, some uninhabited land where to rest. Hiccup knew of no good direction though. To make matters worse, he was incredibly tired, and, despite the chilly air washing his face, he could still feel some of the lulling effects of Gobber’s mead pulling his eyelids to close.

“Let’s find some other land, bud’.” Hiccup said, his voice one of pure dejection.

Toothless wailed with concern.

“I’m fine. Just really tired,” Hiccup replied, yawning. He did not expect to suddenly receive a slap on his face by the dragon’s ear-plate.

“ _Hey!_ What was _that_ for?”

Toothless looked back questioningly, producing a playful warbling noise.

“Yeah. Much better. _Thanks._ ” Hiccup shot back, faking an annoyed glare. Yet the slap had actually worked. He did feel slightly more awake. At least for now.

* * *

Their flight was getting long and worrisome. Hiccup could still not see any land along the dark horizon, so he ended up trusting the dragon’s exceptional eyesight for a while. He decided to look up to the stars. He didn’t know how to read them of course, like most sailors had to, but at least he could pretend.

As they flew, the crystalline night twinkled around them with awe-inspiring clarity, as Hiccup observed the immense, dotted vault above. He tilted his head back completely, to let only sky in his field of view. Even though they were flying at high speed, the countless glowing stars seemed so incredibly still and far away.

_‘Close your eyes. What can you see?’_

Hiccup suddenly recalled his mother’s words, the ones she used every time she began one of her stories. The stories, Hiccup could not remember unfortunately, but he could still somewhat hear her tender voice.

 _‘Nothing’_ , he’d always respond, matter-of-factly.

 _‘Rub them.’_ She’d say. _‘Can you see the stars?’_

“I see them now, mom,” Hiccup whispered to the wind so only he could hear.

He refused to blink for a while, allowing himself to be overwhelmed by the night’s beauty.

Whether it was because of the strong winds parching his eyes, or the memory of his mother, or his mounting weariness, Hiccup couldn’t tell, but soon the sting of tears started blurring this majestic vision. With a deep sigh, he lowered his gaze once more towards the dark sea below, resuming the search for land. What he saw then did nothing to increase his hopes.

A black haze all around, flashes of light, clouds as tall as the sky itself. The true summer storms had finally come.

“ _Aaah...”_ Hiccup moaned with exasperation. “The gods hate me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finally published the World-map for this story! You can find the links on my profile page. As you may have read in my profile, the world for this fic is not shaped with the geography of the Earth, but it's an original, fictional world.
> 
> I've also decided to plot Hiccup's progress on a smaller version of the map, marking the distances in Leagues (1League = 5.5Km = 3.45Miles). I'll be updating it along the way, so you can keep track of the journey. If you are a new reader, and you don’t like spoilers, then keep in mind that the smaller map might reveal Hiccup’s position in future published chapters.


	11. Truly Toothless

**(Toothless)**

 

The twinkling stars had suddenly vanished from the night, and, beyond a wall of heavy rain, everything was dark, the sea and clouds merged together in unified blackness, but for the occasional bolts of light piercing the sky, like gargantuan white teeth biting the world whole. Soon, the storm was all around them, and Toothless had no choice but to let the winds lead them inside that immense, violent mouth of churning air and water and blinding fire.

“You know, Toothless? I think the gods really _do_ hate me,” Hiccup complained, speaking loudly against the winds, his sarcasm clearly overpowered by worry. “I mean, not only do they never answer my calls, but now it appears they’re actively trying to kill me too!”

Toothless glanced back at his rider, but otherwise said nothing. After all, he still was not sure what Hiccup meant by the human word _‘gods’_. Instead, he braced himself, before fully entering the storm. Hiccup had also crouched lower upon the saddle, and they both squinted when the cold raindrops finally started to viciously gnaw at their faces.

The flight against the winds became downright turbulent. Fortunately, Hiccup had become quite adept at handling the prosthetic fin, so Toothless was confident the winds would pose no problem to the most agile of dragons. Lightning, however, was a completely different matter. Not even a Night Fury could dodge the sky’s white flame. Toothless decided to lower their altitude in a hopeful attempt to avoid being hit. Truth was, dragons seldom took to the skies during storms, for it was often risky and dangerous. Alas, it was too late for them now.

“Please, tell me you see some land, bud’!” Hiccup shouted. “Anything will do!”

Toothless swung skillfully against the fitful gusts, yet not even his excellent eyes could see through that storm, and, with the rain washing away every scent, his nose was useless too. He could only beat his wings faster, flying rushedly towards the hope for land, not so much for himself, but rather for his rider, who had begun to shiver on his back.

Both of them fought together against the winds, feeling grateful each time lightning slapped some tall, frothy wave instead of their sorry scales. Yet, the violent roars of thunder would still painfully pierce their ears. When the heavy rain before them appeared to disperse, a broad, powerful bolt of light curled on the horizon, revealing, with a flash, a dark, unmistakable silhouette of a mountain.

Toothless growled in triumph, and beat his wings with a new strength. He cut through the air as only a Night Fury could, making encouraging noises for his rider.

He received no response. Hiccup was still on his back, and the tail-fin was still being controlled, but the boy was not acknowledging his hopeful chirps. This worried Toothless, so he probed with his all six ears towards his rider. There was no human voice, only a light clattering of... _teeth?_

What did that sound mean? He had never witnessed this kind of reaction from the human hatchling. Toothless decided to reach the island as soon as possible, anxious to find out what was wrong with him.

The landscape was not overly welcoming. Despite the darkness, the island appeared to be a dormant volcano, surrounded by its own black, solidified lava, which had burned and eroded parts of the forest, forming countless crevices and caverns. Toothless chose to descend inland, where it was safer from the elements. He saw a large opening in the mountainside which provided shelter from the rain. When he landed, Hiccup stumbled down the saddle, shivering like never before as they made their way inside that shallow, but very wide cave.

“I need t-t-t-to…” Hiccup said, his clattering teeth preventing him from speaking further.

Toothless licked Hiccup’s cheek. The boy was cold! That was why, he assumed, the human’s teeth were making that disturbing noise, and it was probably a bad sign. Dragons had no particular issues with low temperatures, or water for that matter. Humans, however, appeared to suffer the cold particularly when wet. Yes, that was probably it.

While Hiccup removed the basket from the saddle with trembling hands, Toothless considered making a fire for his human, but the whole forest was soaked, so dry wood was not an option; besides, he would need to leave Hiccup to find it. He decided to scorch the ground before him with his own flame, to make it warm. Then, he tried to pull the boy towards his chest to embrace him.

“Wait-t-t-t,” the human mumbled as he spilled the contents of the basket on the floor of the cave. “Could you t-t-t-turn around?” He added through trembling teeth.

Toothless did not understand the reason behind the question. He looked around, but nobody else was there, so he looked back at Hiccup, who did not appear to care about enforcing the strange request. Meanwhile, Hiccup retrieved some of the strange, human-made skins from the basket, and was now removing his own upper skins, the one which the human called ‘ _tunic’_.

For the first time, Toothless could see the bare, pale, freckled, but smooth skin of his rider’s back, and was appalled to observe that he could almost count the boy’s ribs. Was Hiccup not fed on his island? Why was his human so bony? All the skins and furs he wore hid the truth reality of the boy’s poor physical condition. Toothless resolved to be even more obstinate about having his rider eat more food in the future.

Hiccup had replaced his wet tunic with a dry one from his belongings, and was now unrolling his large pelt, hands shivering. Once he was done, the boy turned towards him.

“Bud’ c-c-can you-” He didn’t finish the sentence, before falling towards Toothless, unconscious.

Toothless didn’t have the time to growl in alarm as he swiftly grabbed his pale rider, clasping his gums to the neck of the boy’s tunic. He then worriedly pulled his human towards the pelt, and wrapped himself around him, trying to raise his own body temperature by burning more of his inner gas, hoping it would help Hiccup recover quickly.

Fortunately, the boy was just sleeping, and, after some time, his shivering receded. Toothless checked on his rider constantly to make sure he was fine, but, a long while later, even he began to feel fatigue overtake him. Reassured by the now calm breathing of his little human, Toothless allowed his eyes to seal, and he finally fell asleep as well.

* * *

Toothless woke up gradually, wiggling his ear-plates to better listen to his surroundings. It was still raining outside, though in a more tranquil manner than the previous day, and the cave echoed with the sounds of heavy drops leaking from the rocky ceiling, and pooling in large puddles of fresh water around them.

When he opened his eyes, he could see daylight seep through the overcast skies. How long had he slept? How long would Hiccup need to sleep? Should he raise his wing to check on the little human, and risk waking him up? He pondered those questions, until apprehension made him finally decide to peek under his wing.

Hiccup was still asleep against his chest, the boy’s soft auburn hair brushing against his forepaw. His breathing, however, was somewhat heavy and… irregular. This, once again, frightened Toothless, who had never observed such a condition on his rider. He hadn’t slept like that the day before. Was this normal?

_Humans are so strange,_ Toothless thought.

He gave a cautious lick to Hiccup’s soft cheek. The boy was now unusually hot! Toothless raised his wing completely, letting the chilly air hit the human’s face. Was it his fault? Had he overheated his own blood, and subsequently the human hatchling too? Hiccup hadn’t complained during the night, though.

Toothless rose, his heart in a rush, allowing the boy to rest solely over the fur pelt.

_“Are you all right?”_ He said, using human words, stomping his front paws worriedly on the ground. _“Hiccup, wake up!”_ He tried again. Unfortunately, he had never been able to connect to his rider’s mind. He had slowly and painstakingly learnt more and more about the human language, but he could not use it himself. Dragons could not make those complex sounds with their mouths, and humans could not use their inner ear. And to think that they had such large brains!

_Humans are so strange._

Toothless paced back and forth, trying to think of something, until he decided to poke Hiccup’s cheek with his snout, and force him out of his sleep; he could not bear to wait any longer without knowing whether the little human would be fine or not. The boy was his only means of flight. And, even if he hadn’t been, Toothless had secretly begun to care a bit for the hatchling; he did not want to lose him now.

Hiccup stirred, but did not wake. Toothless prodded him again, and finally the boy half-opened his eyes.

“Hey Tooth’...” Hiccup whispered hoarsely. “Oh... my head,” he added, touching his forehead with a palm of his hand. The boy tried to sit up, but he appeared unable to do so. Toothless helped him, and warbled his concern:

_“What’s happening to you?”_ Toothless tried asking with his inner voice.

“Bud’… I think… did you just… I must be… oh man; my _head!_ ” Hiccup did not finish the sentence. Instead, he crawled on all fours towards one of the deeper puddles of fresh water in the cave, and splashed some on his face. For a moment, he seemed stuck; then, he drank, and finally he crawled back towards the spilled objects on the floor, picking up the wool blanket, a cloth, and one of the wooden bowls. He filled the large bowl with cold water, soaked the cloth in it, and flung it on his forehead with a splat as he lay down atop the pelt again, looking completely exhausted. The little human seemed to know what he was doing, but that only increased Toothless’ astonishment, without alleviating any of his worries.

Why was the boy trying to cool himself, when only yesterday he had been freezing? Why was he so warm today? And why did he look so tired? All these doubts made Toothless’ throat emit countless little whimpers of distress, whilst his paws kneaded the rocky floor.

Hiccup flicked his eyes open for a single glance towards him, and then shut them again, as if it had been too strenuous a task. The boy took two deep, heavy breaths, and finally said:

“I’m sorry bud’. I think I have a fever… I need to rest. Don’t worry about me.” His voice lowered to a mumble. “Don’t worry…” he repeated under his breath, “don’t…”

Hiccup fell asleep again, and Toothless, unable to obey his rider’s request, couldn’t help worrying even more. How could he _not_ worry? He didn't even know what the word _‘fever’_ meant! Was it a bad kind of sickness? Would sleep be enough to cure him?

_Humans are so strange!_

Powerless, unsure of what to do to help his rider recover, Toothless felt stuck. He knew nothing about human health, and he was most certainly inexperienced when it came to tending to others. Night Furies were by nature solitary dragons who preferred flying the skies above any other creature, basking in the pride of their own legendary speed and strength. Toothless, however, had forfeited his pride the day he allowed his mind to be captured by the Queen’s spell.

Not even he knew exactly how many seasons he had spent as a slave, but even a single day would have been enough to break a Night Fury’s spirit forever. Night Furies were supposed to be kings of the skies, not minions. So, it should not have surprised him when, after getting to know Hiccup in the cove, he had found himself unable to feel anything but gratitude towards the boy. The human hatchling had unknowingly saved him from the Queen, and had even spared his life. Alas, it had all come at the high cost of his flying ability.

It had been (and sometimes still was) very hard to accept, not being able to fly by himself; almost as hard as acknowledging he was not really a king of the skies. He had never been one, and he never would be. Yet, Toothless carried on, failing to fret too much over his losses. He did not understand why or how he could be so calm about it, but he suspected it was in no small part thanks to his little friend’s unexpected help and devotion.

His little friend was sick though, and Toothless was not sure whether he was going to recover by himself. If Hiccup died, Toothless would probably follow not long afterwards. He would be stuck on that island. Maybe he could manage to survive there, but he was going to be a hostage to the earth’s pull, confined to that rock forever, imprisoned and unfree. To any dragon, that was not a life worth living, and this was even truer for a Night Fury. There was only one thing to do, then; was going to try his best to take care of the hatchling before him, even though he knew not where to begin.

_I have to do something!_

Toothless brought fresh fish to the young human, and moved the bundle with dried meat closer to where the boy was resting. He did the same with the water bladder, the one that did not smell like a strange poison. He also recovered some wood branches, which he broke and dried with his flame, before lighting them up to make a fire in the cavern, just like Hiccup usually did, only larger.

For almost half a day, Toothless did not know what else to do. He stared expectantly at his friend, hoping he would wake up again, if only for a single moment, just to reassure him that he was going to be all right.

Toothless waited, stared, whimpered, and waited some more, but Hiccup would only stir or turn in his restless sleep. The boy’s eyes kept darting nervously left and right under his eyelids, but he did not wake once for the entire day. Sometimes, when his breathing became too faint, Toothless would panic, and he would rush up close to check whether the boy’s lungs were still working. He could not bring himself to touch his rider again though, for fear of disturbing him and perhaps making things worse; the little human looked so fragile, it was almost heartbreaking.

When night had fallen, Toothless noticed that the cloth on the boy’s forehead had become dry. He wasn’t really sure what he was doing, but he assumed it was supposed to be wet in order to help Hiccup lower his temperature. He moved closer to the boy, and, as carefully as he could, he removed the cloth with his teeth, dipped it in the bowl of water, and then tried to readjust it on Hiccup’s forehead with a few cautious movements of his claws.

It was dripping with too much water. Perhaps he should have squeezed some water out of it.

“Thank you, mom…” Hiccup suddenly murmured, half-opening his tired eyes, and looking in the dragon’s direction. “…sorry I got sick again,” he added.

Toothless did not know what to think. Was the boy dreaming about his mother, despite his semi-wakeful state? Toothless had heard Hiccup talk about her only once, and he only knew she wasn’t alive anymore.

The boy stared at him for a while, his eyes lost and distant. “One day I’ll become strong like dad. I promise. Then I’ll never get sick.”

Like that, Hiccup ended the imaginary conversation, and fell asleep once more.

Toothless could only watch, partly disturbed by the exchange, partly worried. Little did he know, however, that such visions were about to get much worse. In fact, it wasn’t long before Hiccup woke up again, green eyes now wide with fear. In them, Toothless could see the reflected flickers of his attempt at a bonfire, the sole source of light in the cavern, since the rain outside kept concealing the night’s moon.

“Dad, please! I’m sorry.” Hiccup cried towards the ceiling, dragging himself up on his trembling elbows. “I’m sorry!” He shouted again, swiftly turning his head towards Toothless, and locking eyes with him, terrified; the motion made the wet cloth fall. Toothless made to retrieve it, but, as he approached his hallucinating friend, Hiccup let out a scream:

“Dad, NO! Don’t feed me to the dragons! I said I was sorry! What do I have to do?!” He yelled, raising his forearms to protect himself from the Night Fury before him.

At least, this time, Hiccup was seeing Toothless for what he was, a dragon, but he was not recognizing him, which, to Toothless, was somehow even worse. He decided to keep his distance, leaving the wet cloth on the ground. Something about that scene was making him feel sick himself. He was only trying to help. While his rider was obviously not in his right mind, it still felt like his own flame had burst in his chest.

Fortunately, Hiccup fell asleep soon afterwards, although, for the following while before morning, an abundance of moans and jumbled shouts would constantly escape his throat. At one point, water started trickling from the corners of his closed eyes. Toothless did not like it when that happened. He had learnt to associate that human impulse with the feeling of intense sadness. He remembered, merely two days before, when his little human was sitting by the edge of a cliff, spilling so many drops. It was as if his face had been raining, which Toothless found to be an uncomfortable sight. What was a Night Fury supposed to do in those situations?

Toothless had produced a few timid noises to catch his rider’s attention, but he hadn’t been heard. He was sure the human was sad, though the reasons were still unclear to him. He had always thought Hiccup would have been more than happy to leave his island; that’s what Hiccup had kept claiming for days, before finally deciding to leave.

Of course, Toothless was aware that Hiccup had failed to carry out their escape in the way he had planned, but wasn’t their freedom ultimately more important now? Was his tribe’s opinion _that_ relevant to Hiccup’s life, despite his past? Toothless had heard his rider often rant about his life in the village of Berk, and he had become increasingly sure that leaving would have been a great pleasure to the boy. Not so much apparently.

Maybe it was not easy for humans to abandon their homes. After all, Night Furies, unlike most other dragons, had no fixed concepts of family, or kin, or home. The sky was their home, clouds were their friends, and winds were their very large, supportive family.

Perhaps Hiccup had actually sacrificed a lot to for his sake. The thought made Toothless feel even more grateful to the little human, no matter how unnatural the emotion was for a Night Fury. Toothless fought his instincts, and kept watching over the boy, a task which was turning out to be harder than expected.

Morning finally came again. One full day had passed. The rain had calmed, and so had Hiccup’s sleep. Toothless, however, had not shut his eyes once. He had become a vigilant statue by the hatchling’s side, with only his tail occasionally moving, slowly patting the ground, once left, and once right, expectant, hopeful. When Toothless refreshed the wet cloth on the boy’s forehead, he decided to brush his tongue on the boy’s cheek. Was it cooler? Was it the same? He could not really say.

Suddenly, Hiccup let out a low murmur: “I’ll be fine bud’. Don’t worry about me.” His eyes were kept closed, but he was finally awake, and, most importantly, he was conscious! Hiccup reached with his hand to scratch the dragon’s chin, but his strength failed him, and he was forced to lower his arm again.

As the arm fell, Toothless managed to slip his head under the boy’s hand, so it would rest upon his snout. It was probably selfish of him to search for comfort from the ailing boy, but he could not resist the urge. He had been so afraid.

“Tomorrow… I promise.” Hiccup said, his voice raspy, but soothing. “Tomorrow we will fly again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you notice any particularly heavy anachronisms in my story, I would really appreciate it if you could point them out to me. I’ve so far tried to avoid mentioning modern slang, or even words like “okay”. Hard as it may be, I’m also trying to avoid the metric system, and the usage of minutes and seconds throughout all narration (Vikings had no way to measure them), as well as (some) technologies and tools that even pseudo-Vikings could not possess. Still, something might have escaped my attention. This is fiction, but I’d like to keep it realistic and gritty when I can. Thank you!


	12. A Clean Start

**(Hiccup)**

 

“What; I said I’m _fine,_ ” Hiccup said, gesturing to himself and briefly jumping on the spot. The soft grass in the glade outside their cave was still slick from the fallen rain under his boots, but a morning sun was finally gracing their nameless island.

“See?”

Toothless did not look convinced. He kept eyeing him suspiciously as he slowly paced around him, like a predator does his prey, first producing tiny concerned growls, then bigger, angrier ones. He occasionally puffed small clouds of smoke from his nostrils.

“Why are you pouting?” Hiccup complained, troubled by the dragon’s unreasonable behavior. “I told you I’d be fine! The fever is gone like I promised. Look!” He spun around in a spectacle of healthy Viking-ness.

Toothless was not amused by the performance. He had likely been very worried about him.

_But why does he look angry?_

In the past, Hiccup had suffered from many fevers. Those days, Gobber or Helga would occasionally come to check on him at Stoick’s behest, but otherwise Hiccup had dealt with most of his illnesses alone. His father, being the chief of the village, did not have the time to care for him when he became ill. Besides, Stoick had never seemed to enjoy spending time at home, or maybe just around his son, or both. As a consequence, Hiccup had gotten used to looking after himself during most fevers or colds, for they were unfortunately quite common occurrences, especially when he had been younger.

However, Hiccup did not know what it meant to stand by a sick person himself; he could barely imagine. After all, if the common Viking’s etiquette was anything to go by, indifference was supposedly the appropriate response to someone’s affliction, assuming it was not life-threatening. Still, he was healthy now, and he had assured Toothless of that, plenty of times already.

_I told him not to worry about me!_ He thought, trying to fend off an uncomfortable feeling; it was almost like guilt, but why would he feel guilty? Wasn’t _he_ the one who had been sick?

“Alright, alright, but I’m really fine now. Here, look… Ha!” Hiccup exclaimed playfully in an awkward attempt to lighten the mood, softly punching the dragon’s jaw to show off his recovered strength.

“Aha! Take that Snotlout!” He said, pretending to fight the imaginary opponent, or, more accurately, as he pretending to pretend to fight, since he had no actual experience with hand-to-hand combat in the first place, unless being occasionally shoved around counted as combat experience.

Toothless barely budged behind his weak jabs; it did not look like the dragon was enjoying his antics in the least. The playful activity was put to a sudden end when the Toothless, teeth fully unsheathed, produced a powerful, ear-shattering roar, one of unmistakable anger.

Hiccup fell on his back, trying to cover his ears with his hands, and instinctively raising his elbows in defense. He hadn’t expected such a reaction, and, for a terrifying moment, it seemed like his friend had transformed into the dangerous beast that all Vikings believed dragons to be.

“I’m sorry,” Hiccup blurted out immediately, cowering on the ground. He could hardly recognize Toothless behind those exposed pointy teeth and claws. He felt so small before the dragon’s angry form, defenseless, like the day they had first met. At the same time, just to make matters slightly worse, the strange guilt he had been trying to ignore rushed back into his stomach.

_I probably deserved that,_ Hiccup thought. He realized Toothless could not have known about his rather frequent fevers, or how dangerous they were or were not. The crippled dragon had most likely felt the dread of dying on that island without a rider, unable to fly for the rest of his life.

_I definitely deserved that._

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” Hiccup said, warily lowering his hands. “I just get sick sometimes. It was just the usual fever for me. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he admitted, though he did not move from his spot on the ground, still unsure whether his words had actually reached his friend, or whether the dragon before him had become as feral as a pack of wild, angry boars.

“Bud’?” He murmured, his legs shaky with a mixture of fear and lack of strength, which he hadn’t fully regained yet.

Toothless’ eyes finally softened after a few blinks. He then voiced a soft, apologetic croon, which Hiccup had been breathlessly waiting for (and secretly praying for). The dragon approached him as he lay on the ground, and nuzzled the his chest.

Hiccup felt relief spread across his limbs at the warm touch. Why he had been so reluctant to apologize in the first place, however, he could not recall.

“I didn’t think you cared so much, you know?” He said, caressing the dragon’s head. They both lay on the soft grass. “I mean… you stood by my side for two days, you brought me food, you kept cooling my head... Thank you, bud’.”

Toothless purred and pressed his muzzle into Hiccup’s chest again. Then, in a sudden fit of glee, he started licking him. First, he lapped his chin, then his entire face, while Hiccup could only try to fight his way out of the dragon’s overly-affectionate grasp.

“Bud’! S-stop! Ahhh!” Hiccup wailed uselessly, though he couldn’t help laughing too as the dragon’s large tongue coated him with thick layers of drool. “No- Stop- Please, Tooth-!” He suddenly coughed, which made Toothless interrupt his display of affection, allowing Hiccup to stand up.

“ _Eeew!_ It’s in my mouth!” Hiccup exclaimed and coughed again, trying to spit out all the dragon saliva that he had managed _not_ to swallow by mistake.

He then produced a revolted grunt, and scraped off the excess slime from his face with his hands, which he wiped on dragon’s own snout, catching Toothless by surprise.

“ _There._ Serves you right.” He said smugly, failing to hide the cheeky smirk on his lips. Toothless frowned, but seemed otherwise unfazed by having his own muzzle covered with spit.

Hiccup finally sat on the grass trying to recover from the exhaustion of fighting his much larger friend. He was going to need at least one more day before he could consider himself healthy again.

As he sat, contentedly observing the small clouds above being herded by the warm southern winds, and for once _not_ thinking about Berk, Hiccup caught a whiff of what he could only describe as a rather unpleasant smell. After failing in his attempt to ignore it, he tried to consider its source, only to realize that the source was none other than himself.

“Oh man. I smell like Gobber after a full day at the forge,” he exclaimed, sniffing under his own armpits, and slowly remembering he had not washed for… _how long?_ During his last couple of weeks on Berk, the troubling thoughts of abandoning the island had made Hiccup forgetfully skip the customary activity of Laugardagr, the weekly Day of Washing. This meant he had not washed properly for no less than fourteen days, perhaps even more.

“Toothless, I seriously need a bath bud’. I reek like a yak!” He admitted, slightly surprised with himself. Despite the saying that outcasts were supposed to never bathe, Hiccup was not willing to abide by such rule. He did not want to stink, even as an outcast.

Toothless approached him with an eager, gummy smile, and his forked tongue readily lolling out in a most threatening fashion.

“No no no, enough dragon spit! I mean it. _Stay_. _Put_. _There_.” Hiccup commanded in his most authoritative tone, pointing a single prohibitive finger towards his friend, and trying his best not to smile as he did so. “Humans wash with fresh water, not spit.” He explained.

Toothless retracted his tongue with an unhappy warble. Then, sniffing the air, the dragon began to look around with a thoughtful frown.

“What is it?” Oh, please don’t tell me there’s someone else on this island!” Hiccup was too tired to pull off another hurried escape like the one on Meathead island.

The dragon shook his head, but he gestured with his shoulders for Hiccup to get on him.

“Want to fly? _Now?_ But I just removed your fin, I thought it was starting to chafe.”

Toothless shook his head again.

“I don’t get it,” Hiccup said, pursing his lips.

A low warbling noise and a soft bark were the only response.

“You know, sometimes I really wish you could speak, bud’. It would make everything so much easier.”

The dragon rolled his eyes; he then approached a lingering puddle of muddy rainwater, and splashed his paws inside it, casting a meaningful look towards Hiccup. He did it again and again until Hiccup thought he understood.

“Oh, you mean water! You think there’s a river or something?”

Toothless nodded this time.

Hiccup gladly accepted the suggestion, and, after grabbing some of his effects, he allowed his friend to carry him on his shoulders. Toothless wasn’t wearing his saddle or tailfin, so he just trotted merrily into the unburnt patches of forest, towards what Hiccup believed was the sea’s direction. He did not recall any of the island’s layout, since they had landed during the night, in the company of an early summer storm.

They soon emerged from the tree-line to the sight of a small valley, which descended gradually towards the sea-shore. It was not just the usual valley, though. Where Hiccup expected to see grass or moss or mud, the strange patch of land was dressed all in waves of white. Hiccup slid off the dragon’s back, eyes wide, then leaned to feel the surprisingly solid floor. At first glance, it looked almost like snow, but it was actually a very light-grey kind of rock, smooth and dusty to the touch, like pumice stone or chalk, only denser, harder.

The whole valley was uneven, molded by rain and wind to form gentle hills and bumps, pits and craters, some small as tables, others big as houses, all made from this kind of pale rock, connected smoothly like dunes of sand on a beach, but rigid, and apparently impermeable too.

Rainwater appeared to have filled all the smooth craters to the brim, creating dozens of interconnected lakes. Some were half as large as the one in the cove back on Berk, whereas others were mere basins.

As Hiccup looked around, he noticed a very narrow stream emerging from the forest to their far left, pouring even more water into the lakes, which in turn spilled over into the lower ones, and so on, until they reached the sea.

“Whoa… Look at this place,” Hiccup murmured to himself, then asked: “Do you think it’s because of the volcano? Is this like… white lava?”

Toothless shrugged absently.

“Aren’t you supposed to know about volcanoes? I once heard that dragons like volcanic places. Don’t they?”

After a small pensive silence, the Night Fury gave another noncommittal shrug.

“You don’t know? How could you _not_ know? Aren’t you _at all_ like the other dragons?”

Toothless did not like that. He scowled and huffed, offended. He then straightened his pose to a more dignified one, with an amazingly smug expression plastered over his face, his head held high, eyelids lowered lazily. In that stance, the dragon looked like an elegant statue carved in black stone. No matter what anyone could say, Night Furies were truly beautiful creatures, and this one clearly knew it.

“Yeah, of course not,” Hiccup said with a scornful look. “You are the _bestest_ of the best. The greatest dragon that ever was or will be.”

Toothless ignored the heavy sarcasm behind those words, and nodded solemnly in acceptance of even that derisive form of flattery. Hiccup could not tell whether Toothless was being ironic himself, but he already knew for a fact that the Night Fury before him was by no means a humble one. At least on the outside, for as Hiccup would sometimes notice, the dragon’s eyes seemed to hide a rather different story.

Hiccup approached one of the largest pools, and probed the water with his fingers. The pumice-like floor sloped gradually to a substantial depth, but Hiccup could still see the clear bottom at the center of the pool, filtered through pale-blue colors, rippling as his hand disturbed the surface. The water wasn’t freezing, but it was still rather cold, almost like the lake back at their cove near Raven Point, back on the island of Berk.

Hiccup laid down his clean clothes. He began undressing, before remembering that Toothless was there. He turned around.

“Hey, bud’, listen, can you… could you…” He trailed off. How was he going to explain? He didn’t even know whether he should. After all, wasn’t Toothless only a dragon? He was that, of course, yet Hiccup had enough proof that Night Furies, and perhaps many more dragons, were just as intelligent, and just as sentient as humans. So, try as he might, Hiccup felt he could not control his pathological shyness, even before his best and only friend.

He sometimes cursed himself for that stupid affliction, but he had yet to learn to fight it, not to mention overcome it. Besides, Hiccup had never been forced to. He had never had to wash in Berk’s common bathhouse before, and he had always dreaded the idea, partly because he didn’t want anyone to have definitive proof that, behind those oversized clothes and voluminous fur coat, he was undoubtedly the scrawniest, most pitiful creature in the Barbaric Archipelago.

Much to Hiccup’s relief, the chief’s house was furnished with a rather luxurious round wooden bathtub, as well as its own private outhouse. Behind a large drape, at the back of his noble abode, Hiccup had gotten used to an uncommon amount of privacy for Viking standards. In fact, he could almost consider that tub as his very own, since his father preferred going to the bathhouse, for he wouldn’t have to waste time with heating the water, and he could instead use the occasion to further discuss matters of great import with the other men of the village. Stoick the Vast never stopped working, even on Laugardagr. Still, he had tried to bring Hiccup along a few times, but Hiccup had always hastily come up with some excuse not to go.

This way, Hiccup could also afford to warm the water as he pleased, for he had the time and freedom to heat as many rocks over the hearth as he wanted, to then drop into the tub. He did not even need to get the water himself. On every day of Laugardagr, the tub was filled anew from the nearby well by the occasional boys, who had the honour to perform small daily tasks for the chief, like delivering messages, or bringing whatever the chief required. There were no slaves on Berk, but the chief did have plenty of hands at his disposal.

At the back of his mind, not without a pang of melancholy, Hiccup wondered if he would ever be able to enjoy that kind of luxury again, or if he was destined to wash in cold ponds and rivers for the rest of his life. The possibility of heating the water with scalding rocks was definitely not an option now, and, come winter, even the ponds would be too cold for washing.

“Can you go back to our camp while I wash myself?” Hiccup finally asked, nervously scratching the back of his neck.

Toothless tilted his head, his eyes wide and confused.

“Please? I’ll come back when I’m done. I promise. I know the way.”

The dragon’s expression changed to a worried one. Toothless warbled and crooned questioningly, approaching with concern, instead of going away as he’d been asked.

“No… I- I’d really rather wash alone. I’ll be fine by myself. _Please?_ ”

Toothless was clearly unhappy about leaving Hiccup on his own, and he probably couldn’t begin to understand the ridiculous reasons behind such an unusual request, but he still slouched his way back into the forest, pouting and producing sad little whimpers.

While the apprehensive dragon had always had the tact and consideration not to follow his rider when he had to relieve himself (something Hiccup was incredibly grateful for), undressing and bathing in water were not activities with which the Night Fury was familiar, so it was likely that Toothless was also curious.

Hiccup felt bad for the dragon, but he was going find a way to make it up to him later. “I won’t be long!” He shouted as his friend left.

Once he was sure he was alone, Hiccup stripped completely, and trod with hesitant steps into the water, resisting the urge to shiver. When he was waist-deep into the lake, he decided to plunge with the rest of his body, so as not to extend his suffering. He yelped from the cold before diving in completely, holding what air was left inside his lungs. With his hands, he vigorously scrubbed his hair underwater, in order to wash away most of the dirt and grime.

Finally out of breath, Hiccup emerged from the water. He had almost gotten used to the chill, and he was beginning to enjoy his bath, when, as he reopened his eyes, he found himself face to face with a black, reptilian muzzle.

A shriek escaped his mouth. He launched himself backwards, into deeper waters, trying to hide what he could with both hands.

“Toothless! What-?! Go away!” Hiccup shouted, praying the water provided at least his lower half with enough cover.

Hiccup realized his cold-induced yelp had reached the Night Fury’s sensitive ears, and the dragon had now rushed back worriedly, thinking it a call for help. To make matters worse, Hiccup could feel his cheeks burn red, which the overprotective dragon was probably taking as a sign of physical distress.

“I’m _fine_. Go away now.”

Toothless warbled, scanning Hiccup’s naked figure with obvious concern.

“Oh _come on_.” Hiccup moaned, allowing only one arm to wave his friend away as he yelled “Shoo! Shoo!”, feeling increasingly uncomfortable under the dragon’s stare.

When Toothless was reassured enough about his rider’s health, he slouched back into the forest, without even trying to hide the expression of inexplicable rejection from his face. Hiccup was seriously beginning to worry about the amount of pampering this was going to cost him. He would definitely need to obtain some sturdy brush, he thought, or he was going to end up eroding his fingers on the dragon’s scales from excessive scratching.

Hiccup sighed and resumed his activity, using a piece of rough cloth to rub his skin with some of the soap he had incidentally found in his belongings. Inside a hidden pocket within Gobber’s leather mustache-care kit, Hiccup had discovered a few shards of strong soap, of the kind Vikings used both to clean, but also to lighten their hair, for that soap, if used often enough, had a valuable bleaching effect. It was by no means a secret that Gobber, like many other villagers, enjoyed his mustache braids brightly blonde.

As Hiccup scrubbed himself, he could not avoid noticing a few, timid, yet encouraging changes; truth was, Hiccup would regularly examine his body during Laugardagr, praying for those changes. He felt an unnecessary amount of surprise, and perhaps pride, when he thought he could see a few new, incredibly faint, but still somewhat noticeable, strands of pale-auburn armpit hair. Perhaps he could have one day become a Hairy Hooligan worthy of the name, if only he had stayed on Berk a little longer.

A few more hairs here and there, however, could not provide enough consolation from his much too evident gauntness. He actually looked thinner and bonier than ever.

_Is this why Toothless keeps barfing freshly caught fish on me as often as he can?_ Hiccup asked himself thoughtfully. _He also wanted me to eat three whole rabbits the other day; he knows I can’t eat that much._

Hiccup decided he needed to take better care of himself. After all, if Toothless’ behavior that morning had taught Hiccup anything, it was that he could no longer afford to neglect his own health. The dragon needed him to be strong. Saving the Night Fury from Berk’s bloodthirsty villagers had not put an end to Hiccup’s commitment towards his friend. In fact, it had only given this responsibility an even more central place in his life. He lived for Toothless’ sake now, a notion that he found to be a much nobler source of pride than any, though pleasing, still timid achievement in his slow physical growth.

Hiccup finished bathing, and dried his shivering limbs quickly with another piece of cloth. He also decided to cut his messy hair with Gobber’s scissors. He cut them slightly shorter than usual, so it would be more comfortable to fly without hair getting in his eyes; though, he felt there was also some other reason behind that decision, the heart of which eluded him. He still went through with the slightly different look, almost on a whim.

Once he was done, and not one moment later, Hiccup caught a faint ruffling noise coming from behind the tree-line.

“Come out, Toothless. I know you are there.” Hiccup said with a sigh, accepting the fact that he would never be able to get rid of the Night Fury for very long. He considered himself somewhat lucky that he had at least managed to wear his clean smallclothes. Asking for further privacy would have been pointless, as he and Toothless were, for all intents and purposes, now living together.

The Night Fury’s black head sprung from behind a bush, shooting small leaves in every direction, then the dragon happily trotted to where Hiccup was sitting, gathering his belongings. Toothless approached, and began sniffling Hiccup curiously from head to toe.

“Yeah, I smell better now, don’t I- ah! Tickles!” Hiccup giggled, feeling the dragon’s warm breath on his skin.

Toothless produced an unexpected growl at some unwelcome sight.

“What? Oh... _that._ ” Hiccup found the rather ugly scar that trailed his left side, just below the lowest rib bone. It was no more than the length of a finger, but it had been deep. “That’s from… when… I fell. In the stream,” he half lied. He had actually been thrown by Snotlout and Tuffnut on the day of his tenth birthday.

The two boys had said it was meant to celebrate him, and they had added that they didn’t know the water would be so shallow. They had most likely been honest about the last part, and perhaps even the first, much to Hiccup’s bafflement. He could never understand what the other boys were actually thinking, and Hiccup was still somehow convinced that, for that single day, his two peers had truly decided to regard him as one of their own. It still hadn’t made the sharp rock in his side any less painful, nor the fact that the event had gone relatively unnoticed within the village any easier to digest.

Stoick had been furious of course, but with whom, Hiccup was not sure. Hidden underneath a facade of proper worry, Hiccup could often perceive Stoick’s silent, and sometimes not so silent disapproval. In fact, part of Hiccup had always suspected his father to resent him whenever he got hurt, even when it wasn’t his fault, or perhaps especially on those occasions. A man could get hurt by himself, but when another man was the offender, retaliation was a Viking’s prerogative and obligation, possibly of the kind involving fists. At least, that’s what Stoick seemed to want his son to learn: to be more like a Viking. Hiccup had tried, of course, but his fists had never yielded the desired effect.

Still, as a contradiction to that very lesson, Stoick had preferred not to make a fuss about the accident that day. Maybe he had preferred to avoid upsetting his rather uncertain relationship with Snotlout’s father, Spitelout. Despite his strength and might, and with only few exceptions, diplomacy was always a priority in Stoick’s mind, which was one of the reasons why Berk had almost entirely forgotten what a blood-feud was.

That was actually one of the things Hiccup greatly admired about his father, so he hadn’t complained, but he had yet to understand why he was expected to act more like a Viking himself, when ‘un-Vikingness’ was clearly one of his father’s most effective tools as a chief. Hiccup was sure he was alone in seeing that contradiction.

In any case, even if the two boys had gone unpunished, Hiccup did not mind. After all, he suspected that, somewhere deep inside, both Snotlout and Tuffnut had actually felt some remorse for hurting him so gravely; although, like proper Vikings, they would have never shown even a glimpse of it.

They had still come to visit him afterwards, as he was recovering in his bed after being sewn closed by Gothi, and Snotlout had even asked whether he was going to need to take over as heir or not, because, as the burly boy had put it: ‘ _it would be a bit of a hassle’_. He’d said it most likely in jest, Hiccup was sure, but that was still the closest thing to an apology he had ever gotten from his cousin.

_Funny how the worst scar I have is from their attempt to be friendly with me._

_Maybe that’s what being friendly means to real Vikings,_ Hiccup would often think, although he found that reasoning tough to comprehend.

Not a few weeks after the accident, of course, his relationship with both boys had reverted to what it had always been. He was still the ‘village hiccup’, after all. Nonetheless, he had decided to forgive them, wanting to believe that, for once, their intent had been a well-meaning one, and hoping he wasn’t wrong. It may not have mattered now that he was an outcast, but Hiccup didn’t want Toothless to feel otherwise about them, at least in regard to that scar.

“Don’t worry about it.” Hiccup finally said, feeling surprised at himself for not shying away anymore from the dragon’s stare upon his exposed torso.

Feeling clean, refreshed, almost renewed, Hiccup determined he could officially begin thinking about their next destination: a safe place to call their own.

Their actual departure was going to wait a while, though. For now, Hiccup had to recover completely. Hence, Hiccup decided to spend that afternoon, and the next couple of afternoons too, snugly resting by his best friend’s side, occasionally taking to the skies, and thoroughly enjoying the precious sun of the first balmy days of May.

* * *

Boy and dragon broke their fast that morning with fresh salmon, which Toothless had graciously caught (without swallowing it, as instructed), and which Hiccup was now cooking over a small fire. The dragon had already eaten his fill, and was now observing Hiccup’s activity with interest, laying his head upon his crossed paws.

“You know, Toothless, I’m going to have to learn how to hunt for myself at some point,” Hiccup said with a serious frown, before rotating the skewered slab of fish he was holding, to cook the other side. “I can’t keep making you always provide for me.”

Toothless whined in protest. He sounded almost offended.

“Why not? I’m really glad for your help bud’, but I shouldn’t always rely on you for _everything_ , at least not for food. You just need me to fly, but I’m using you for almost everything else: food, travel, protection… even heat! It’s not fair to you.”

He was determined to learn, sooner or later, how to take care of himself, partly for the dragon’s sake, but mostly because, as he was beginning to realize, and as Astrid had painfully pointed out, he had actually been coddled all his life, at least in regard to the basics of survival; when it came to the other aspects of life, perhaps not so much.

Toothless was still unconvinced. He produced a series of high to low-pitched warbling noises, which Hiccup was slowly beginning to decipher as some form of disagreement. Hiccup had spent enough time with the dragon to be able to successfully discern (often aided by his friend’s vivid facial expressions) most of the sounds for affirmation and denial, direction, calls for attention or alarm, and more.

However, he sometimes could not believe that this was all there was to dragon communication, at least as far as Night Furies were concerned. After all, Toothless had clearly learnt to understand him word for word, so the potential for comprehension of complex languages was obviously there.

“I at least need to learn _how_ to hunt. I won’t change my mind about this,” Hiccup stated in his best tone of confidence, “even though I don’t think I completely understood what you just said,” he added. “Actually, about that: remember when you woke me up the other day, and I had a fever?”

Toothless raised his head, listening.

“Well, my fever was so high, that I actually thought I could hear you talk!” Hiccup chuckled.

The dragon raised his head further.

“It was kind of weird; must have been quite a high fever I had. It’s been a while since I had any visions during fevers. When I was little I used to get quite a lot of those, you know? This time I could almost hear a voice asking if I was alright or something, and I almost believed it was _you_ saying it.” Hiccup smiled at the thought. “Then, I think I also saw…” his smile faded “...someone else.” There was a pause, then he tried to chuckle again. “Too bad my head hurt like an anvil had just fallen on it.”

Watching the palm of his free hand with hopeless contemplation, Hiccup finally murmured: “Still, wouldn’t that be something, if you could talk.”

Hiccup mind drifted off to recall more of that night’s hallucinations, and, coincidentally, his head started to ache again, though this time there was no good reason for it. He tried to ignore the ache, and looked back at Toothless, who was now gaping disturbingly at him, his eyes wide, and the narrow reptilian pupils sharp as knives.

“Wh- why are you looking at me like that?” Hiccup grimaced, unsettled by the intense glare, as if the dragon was trying to pierce him with his eyes. “Tooth’? You are scaring me. Are you alright?”

Slowly, a faint, uncomfortable noise buzzed all around him. “What’s that?” He said, quickly turning to scan his surroundings for the source of the disturbance. The strange sound stopped immediately, and the headache ebbed away too, as if they had never been there. Hiccup returned to face his friend, who had settled his chin on his paws again, and was now gazing at their fire with a dissatisfied air.

“What was _that?_ ” Hiccup asked.

Toothless looked at him sideways, then back to the fire, shrugging casually, as if to say: _‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’_

_Am I still imagining things?_ Hiccup wondered, but decided to ignore the odd event. Toothless looked quite relaxed, and if Toothless, who had far better senses than him, wasn’t worried, he probably shouldn’t have been either. Besides, Hiccup was forced to set his unease aside, due to the sudden smell of burnt fish.

“Thor’s flaming breeches!” Hiccup yelped, yanking away his slab of salmon from the fire. “Damn! Well... At least it’s not _all_ burned, right? We’ll just say it’s well done,” he said, then began to eat his slightly charred fish right from the skewer. Fortunately, his meal had not been entirely ruined by his lack of attention, but, while he was able to fill his stomach, Hiccup still felt like something was lacking from his palate. He knew what it was.

“Man. It’s barely been a week, and I already miss bread,” Hiccup confessed, his mouth watering again at the memory of Helga’s warm loaves. The large woman with amazingly pink cheeks and tied wavy hair had always been quite unpleasant to talk to; her voice could sometimes boom louder than the chief’s, and she was often the reason Hiccup would wake up in the morning to the sound of her barging in their home, shrieking:

_‘HICCUP, ya little muttonhead, COME GET YER DAMN BREAD!’_

Stoick would usually be already out at that hour, and Hiccup, if he hadn’t left for the forge himself, would end up having to sleepily climb down the stairs and grudgingly thank the woman, who would otherwise keep on screaming for Odin knew how long.

_‘Suffering scallops... Can’t you leave it on the table?!’_ Hiccup would yell in response when he was too tired to get up; it was often his morning, throat-clearing exercise.

_‘Get yer ass outta bed and do something useful FOR FREYA’S SAKE!’_ She’d yell back, as per routine.

Why she’d always demand that he receive the bread personally, Hiccup could never understand, and sometimes he suspected his father of always leaving early just to avoid her insufferable presence. Nevertheless, Helga’s bread was by far the best on the island, and thus she was the one who had the honor to bake for the chief’s house.

“Maybe I can make some bread myself,” Hiccup said. “I need barley flour, and an oven… though a pan would be easier, and maybe butter, and…” He frowned, biting his lower lip. Those were all goods he could exclusively find in a village.

Toothless stared at him with an eyebrow raised in suspicion and worry.

“I’ve got it!” Hiccup exclaimed, triumphant, raising the used wooden skewer excitedly, like a warrior would a sword. “We find an empty island close to a southern village where nobody knows about me. Then, we can fly there before sunrise, so we are sure we can’t be seen, and in the morning we can get the stuff we need!” He explained with newfound enthusiasm. “Actually, I’m going to be entering the village alone, you’ll have to stay hidden in the forest. And no lighting fires. We both remember what happened the last time.”

Despite the cogent proposal, Toothless did not abandon his air of suspicion.

“Oh come on. Don’t give me that look. If nobody knows about me, there’s no reason to worry. We are south enough, the Northern Alliance doesn’t reach where we are going, so we won’t be meeting any Berkians, or Meatheads. And who’s going to notice a little _hiccup_ occasionally visiting a shop or two? This could work! We just need to look for the place.”

“Actually, the weather is great, and we’ve just eaten. You know what?” Hiccup chirped happily, jumping to his feet. “We are leaving right now!”

And so, that afternoon, leave they did, towards seas about which Hiccup knew either very little, or nothing at all.


	13. Balheim

**(Hiccup)**

 

_We are heading for tomorrow_

_But we don't know if we're near._

_Will we beg or steal or borrow?_

_Will we ever lose the fear? *_

_…_

“Cods, an’ eels! Cockles an’ mussels! Biggest you’ve ever seen!”

“Best fish in Balheim!”

“Fished right outta tha dragons’ mouths!”

“Best deals you’ll ever see!”

Those loud, unfamiliar accents were among the earliest voices Hiccup heard when he sneaked into the village for the first time, one fair-weathered morning. Of course, the fishermen’s accents were not the only unfamiliar thing around him. The village itself looked odd in his experience, especially in its uncommon layout.

A narrow river cut Balheim in half, and three small wooden bridges crossed its waters. The town was spread orderly along the muddy shore of a natural harbor. An unusually large amount of wooden docks jutted from the beach, deep into the sea, and their abundant length held quite a number of ships as well, most of them with sails of different colors and adorned with different crests, some of which Hiccup could not recognize.

Unlike Berk, the whole town was completely flat, and it extended throughout the regular land, just before the forest and rocky hills began. What Hiccup found most surprising, however, were the strange walls made of pointy wooden logs trailing the village’s perimeter, and obstructing the passage to the forest. Hiccup imagined the walls were for protection against potential attackers docking their ships somewhere else on the island, and invading from the hills, since Balheim’s intricate network of docks was likely very hard for invaders to find stable footing on.

A sea-attack was probably not very easy to carry out, and, although the beach was not walled itself, which had allowed Hiccup to easily and inconspicuously walk into the village, the narrow, muddy passages at the corners of the shore provided no advantage to any hostile army attempting to breach the defenses. So, all things considered, Balheim seemed to be a pretty well-protected settlement; from other humans, that is.

It was far too obvious to Hiccup’s eyes that this Viking village was very different from the ones in the north. The wooden walls, as well as the great number of straw-thatched rooftops, were clear signs that, in Balheim, dragon attacks were not particularly common, but merely an occasional summer hindrance. Walls could not protect a village from flying creatures, and thatched roofs caught fire much faster than the ones on Berk, which were instead made of wooden, diamond shaped shingles; still flammable, but not nearly as quickly as straw.

And yet, the presence of those kinds of rooftops and wooden walls were not the sole signs of the rarity of dragon attacks. The most obvious indication was the comparatively meek-looking population. They were generally of the same intimidating stature of any Berkian, but their faces weren’t as scarred, their limbs not as scarce, and their eyes not as threatening as the ones of the people with whom Hiccup had grown up. Some of them even looked like they could be rather pleasant to talk to; maybe about something other than the best way to chop a dragon’s head off. Perhaps that was the reason why this southern village felt the need to adorn its borders with ominous dragon skulls, tied upon high poles; they were supposed to give strangers a more menacing impression.

Still, despite his mild demeanor, Hiccup was born a Hairy Hooligan of the north, so he felt completely indifferent to that kind of visual intimidation; simple dragon skulls were nothing special on the island of Berk. Besides, northern Vikings had no real need for macabre decorations to scare off enemies. Their bone-chilling war cries, mixed with their confident laughter in the face of death, were enough of a deterrent for any of the unsurprisingly rare southern opponents, and, occasionally, for some dragons too.

All in all, Hiccup had managed to observe quite a bit on his first visit to Balheim. The ‘ _covert scouting mission number one_ ’, as he had so excitedly named it when he had arrived:

After landing with Toothless in the forest, mere moments before sunrise (but not before a heated ‘argument’ with his friend, who was not sharing Hiccup’s enthusiasm at all), Hiccup had sneaked into the village, and he had started roaming its streets, as different people of different trades opened their shops or went to work.

As soon as the first morning batch of bread was ready at the closest baker, Hiccup’s nose had almost forcefully driven his feet to the homely building, where he had asked for a loaf, trying his best to enact the same impression of nonchalance of a casual traveler. His coins could not escape his satchel fast enough at the thought of a warm loaf of bread. Unfortunately, Gobber’s gift of money came in nine pieces of silver, so he had to delay his purchase, pretending to know what he was doing, to find a trader who would exchange his silver coins for copper ones.

He had managed to find a trader by the docks, and, after allowing the man to weigh the silver coin, he had exchanged it for fifteen of copper, though he had likely been ripped off. Hiccup didn’t have much experience neither with the trade of coins, nor with the art of haggling that came with it, since bartering was still the primary trading method on Berk. Not to mention the fact that almost everything came free of charge to a chief’s son anyway.

In fact, as the heir, Hiccup had never truly had any need for coin on Berk, nor had he ever bartered much, except perhaps to get his toys back when he and Snotlout had been younger. He had certainly mastered the art of making careful offers that were just high enough to have his toy returned, but not low enough that he’d get punched instead. A useful skill to one as scrawny as Hiccup.

So, inexperience aside, Hiccup was certainly not a fool. He was quite confident he had been cheated by that trader, but he could not have cared less; the smell of warm bread had been too alluring after more than a week without it. He had also preferred not to make a fuss, for fear of raising suspicions concerning his identity.

Balheim was big and densely populated, a large number of sailors came and went, but Hiccup was still a completely new face on the island, and he’d much rather avoid answering questions, for he had always considered himself a bad liar whenever put under scrutiny. Lying was going to become a necessary part of his life, but he still preferred to steer away from such conversations.

As Hiccup made his way back to Toothless, he allowed the taste of bread to fill his mouth, chewing as slowly as he could, even though Balheim’s baker was not as good as Helga. Nonetheless, he happily gobbled down the warm loaf, closing his eyes every so often.

He had eaten almost half by the time he found Toothless, who, as he had suspected, had not moved a single step for the entire time of Hiccup’s first successful ‘scouting mission’.

The next couple of visits had not gone much differently. The two of them would sometimes fly to Balheim before sunrise, and Hiccup would then sneak alone into the village to purchase some supplies, and, of course, bread, as well as bread-making materials, with which to test his baking skills. After all, becoming a _‘bread-making Viking’_ had been one of his desperate excuses to avoid joining dragon-training, after his first encounter with Toothless; he could now see how he would have fared, had his life been that of a baker.

Hiccup and the dragon had settled on a large nearby island, about twenty leagues to the west. The land was actually vast enough to comfortably accommodate a whole tribe, yet it was mysteriously deserted, forsaken. It had taken Hiccup a few weeks and few well-placed questions to find out why.

Old Balheim, as the place had been renamed, was the former settlement of the people that now lived in Balheim (or ‘New Balheim’, as the older villagers liked to specify). The island had been abandoned, and its village burned to the ground generations before, because of a deadly disease that had spread and decimated the population. Hiccup had certainly heard the name ‘Balheim’ before, but he did not know about the history of such place. An old and somewhat senile man had even told Hiccup that Old Balheim was believed to be cursed, and no sailors would still dare to approach it. Apparently, even some neighboring tribes believed so.

That was all the more convenient for Hiccup, who could feel slightly safer from any unexpected visitors on that island. Besides, he didn’t really believe in the curse. And even if he did, he still refused to believe he could be a target for it; he considered himself already cursed enough by the gods, especially after everything he had gone through.

_There has to be a limit to the number of curses one can suffer. Right?_ He often thought for consolation.

The decision to settle permanently on Old Balheim had come almost immediately after that. Hiccup was going to spend the summer there, flying and playing with Toothless, eating and sleeping, living as an outcast, but also slowly beginning to think about the shape of the shelter that he was going to build for himself and his friend, to resist the winter.

At last, after the conclusion to his first month of exile, Hiccup could almost say he owned a whole private island, along with all of its caves, lakes, forests, and wildlife. Maybe, just maybe, he had finally found his first true home since Berk.

* * *

“Just a little closer… _come ooon…_ ” Hiccup whispered under his breath, advancing with careful steps towards his prey, and clutching Gobber’s sharp knife in his right hand. He had to be careful not to be spotted. He had been trying to hunt by himself for weeks, instructing Toothless to stay at the camp and not interfere, but he had been terribly unsuccessful so far. It seemed that every edible creature in the forest, however small, was either much too cautious, or much too agile, for a hunter the likes of Hiccup Haddock, the runt of Berk.

_Almost there. Almost…_

He was closer than ever this time, close enough to jump on the furry little beast, but, before he could take the initiative, some bird decided to chirp its mating song, making the cheerful call of spring resonate among the trees of the thick forest. It wasn’t a loud chirp, but it was close enough to make the grey rabbit turn, and face its predator.

“Oh no… please don’t run, please don’t run, please don’t _\- damn!_ ” Hiccup exclaimed as soon as his prey, after a brief but intense staring contest, sprung in the opposite direction, hopping left and right among the trees, with agility the young Viking had yet to master. Hiccup struggled to catch up, sprinting towards the quick rabbit, though he knew that, at that point, based on past experience, it was a losing struggle. He still had to try, if he ever wanted to improve.

As Hiccup chased the small animal from one bush to the next, discovering new parts of the lush, abandoned forests of Old Balheim, he had to make a serious effort not to stumble upon the coiled roots of green ash trees and old oaks. He was certainly getting faster, he noticed, and he tired less easily than before. His pursuit came to a sudden halt though, when he observed the rabbit finally find refuge in what at first glance appeared like a dark, horizontal crack within a moss-covered rock. Then, not a moment later, that very rock closed rapidly on Hiccup’s prey with a crunch, almost like a dragon’s maw swallowing a tiny meal.

No, not almost. It was exactly like a dragon’s maw.

Realization came quickly. Hiccup had just witnessed an unknown wild dragon eat the rabbit in a single bite. His blood, still pumping hot from the fruitless chase, immediately froze in his veins. While his conscience suggested him to turn on his heels and leave, his reckless curiosity made him take a single careful step towards the strange reptile, but only after sheathing the knife back into his belt.

He had never seen a dragon quite like it. Actually, he could not clearly make out its full shape yet; the creature’s disguise was too effective. Similar to a huge winged lizard, slightly smaller than a Monstrous Nightmare, but stubbier and with a much larger mouth, this dragon had a Gronckle-like carapace with the colors of mud and stone, and a hint of yellow stripes underneath; the top of its head and back were thoroughly coated in green moss. As far as Hiccup could see, the dragon had no eyes, and, with its mouth closed, it looked completely indistinguishable from the forest.

Hiccup’s mind started to race inquisitively. He considered the dragon’s odd hunting tactic, which made a somewhat nostalgic memory of Fishlegs cross his thoughts. It appeared that this type of dragon would hunt like a snake, ambushing its prey, but with the strange perk of keeping its mouth always open.

Hiccup took another step closer. Perhaps this dragon’s saliva produced some kind of inviting scent for most wildlife. Or maybe it needed to constantly taste the air to be able to see, using the same forked serpentine tongue that was now vibrating ominously towards him.

“Hey big fella…” Hiccup began with a friendly voice, getting even closer as he tried to calm his breath, “I guess I can’t have that rabbit back, huh? Don’t worry, you can keep it… I- I’m sure I’ll catch the next one.” He chuckled nervously, but only very briefly, before the strange creature flared the nostrils on its broad snout.

The lack of eyes made it hard for him to understand its intentions, but as soon as the dragon raised threateningly on its legs, shaking off the dirt and leaves that concealed its figure, and after releasing an unmistakable screech of anger (or was it hunger?), Hiccup knew that the time for indulging his curiosity was over.

“Uh-oh…”

It was time to run.

“Oh man!” Hiccup exclaimed and began kicking his feet on the ground, dashing away from the beast, without direction, but with a very familiar, fear-induced speed. After all, running away from fuming dragons (or boars, yaks, and the occasional angry chicken), was not an uncommon experience for Hiccup, though it had been a while since he had failed to successfully tame one, apart from the rather recent Monstrous Nightmare during his last trial. In his defense, that had not been his fault.

This day, however, he realized that dragons without eyes like this one were probably impossible to tame, since, as far as Hiccup knew at the time, eye contact was crucial. Unfortunately, Hiccup had reached that useful realization a little too late, allowing himself to turn from rabbit-predator, to dragon-prey.

_I was never a real predator to begin with anyway,_ Hiccup thought, or he would have, if he had had any time to think. He had to give it his all to run from the strange dragon chasing him downhill.

He was running fast, aided by the downward slope of the forest’s ground, but, then again, so was the dragon behind him, which, with its wings completely folded, was gaining quickly on him, stomping its feet and leaning heavily on the vegetation with its pointy-clawed paws, pushing itself forward, bending the thinner trees like grass under its weight.

Hiccup could almost feel its hot breath on the back of his neck, when he realized with terror that the dragon had finally caught up with him, despite being blind, which did not appear to hinder its ability to chase him without colliding with the forest’s obstacles.

Still running, Hiccup glanced back to see the huge maw open for him, and time stretched when he saw that those powerful jaws were just a few steps from closing over his shoulder. He instinctively shut his eyes, but he did not feel pain, not on his shoulder at least. Instead, he noticed his left foot catching in a tree-root, making him stumble and roll on the ground, avoiding the beast’s bite, but hitting the hard protruding roots of a tree with his right cheekbone; he did not have enough air in his lungs to express his pain.

The dragon could not stop its momentum, and, after clenching its teeth on nothing but air, it surpassed the fallen Hiccup, without stepping on him, as if by miracle. The angry beast seemed puzzled when it understood that, for a moment, the target had disappeared.

Hiccup fought against his spinning vision, and pushed himself up silently, holding his bruised cheek with one hand. The dragon was searching for his scent, and it was going to find him very soon. Alas, Hiccup did not have the strength to run anymore. When a peaceful gust of wind finally blew in his predator’s direction, gently stirring the tree-leaves, Hiccup saw the untamable creature finally spot his position, and the only thing he could now think of was Toothless.

Driven by the mental image of his friend as a source of courage, Hiccup pulled out his hunting knife. Somehow, in that final situation, the familiar weapon looked different. It _felt_ different in his hands. For the first time, although he must have always known, he could truly grasp the truth of it. The object he was holding was one for killing, an instrument of death, and he was going to have to use it, or at least try, for real now.

Hiccup almost shook his head at himself with a disenchanted frown when he realized that he had never taken the weapon seriously so far, or any weapon. He finally understood why he had regularly failed to hunt. He had never truly been intent on taking a life, much like the day he had found Toothless’ body tangled in the bola. That was why he would always hesitate at the last moment. It wasn’t just strength or speed that he lacked, but also determination. Now he knew for sure.

_Dragons may not always go for the kill, but sometimes they do. A hiccup like me never would though. A hiccup could never survive out here._

That important insight was going to be useless, if he didn’t live through the day. He tightened both hands on the hilt, mustered all of his courage, and raised his knife towards the enemy, for the first time in his life feeling some sort of killing instinct.

In spite of his new resolve, he was still struggling with the fear, the certainty, of failing, and dying. He was about to painfully regret convincing Toothless to let him hunt by himself.

Abruptly, as if on cue, a dark figure jumped from behind Hiccup’s back, covering the sky for a single instant, and landing between him and his attacker.

“Toothless!” Hiccup exclaimed, overwhelmed by joy. He let out a heavy breath, and, trembling with relief, his hands lost their grip on the knife, making it fall, as did the memory of his resolve to kill. Despite his quivering legs, Hiccup approached his friend. Toothless, however, shoved him back with his tail, distancing him from the enemy, just before a contest of ferocious roars and hisses started to reverberate within the woods of Old Balheim.

Toothless looked more aggressive than ever, his stance one of pure, imminent violence, so much so that it gave Hiccup a deep sense of unease. The Night Fury fired a relatively tame blast between his opponent’s forelegs, and immediately began charging another.

The other dragon was at a clear disadvantage. Although its body looked sturdier and larger than the Night Fury’s, its lack of eyes left it vulnerable to projectile blasts like those of Toothless. In spite of this dragon’s incredible ability of combining the senses of smell, sound and tactile vibrations to find its way perfectly, such fast projectiles needed to be seen to be dodged in time (though dodging a Night Fury’s explosive shots was probably impossible anyway). It also appeared that the unknown species did not have fire as a weapon, but a close-range acid spray instead, which made the earth steam where it fell, but which was far too easy for an agile Night Fury to avoid.

Toothless’ next fire-blast exploded right on the opponent’s snout, where its nostrils were located. This, combined with the sound of the blast, made the eyeless creature momentarily blind in every way. The dragon lost its orientation, and stumbled around while Toothless charged a powerful, finishing strike.

“Toothless, no!” Yelled Hiccup, who was feeling surprisingly upset at the sight of his attacker being easily defeated by his formidable (and sometimes downright frightening) friend. If Night Furies were good at something, it was certainly fighting, and also hunting, and flying, and apparently everything else too. And even still, Hiccup had the vague feeling that he had yet to witness the full extent of his dragon’s power. He decided he did not want to.

Toothless turned his head to his rider. His expression softened when he saw him, but not completely, not enough to put Hiccup at ease.

“Just let him go,” Hiccup pleaded, as the unknown dragon stumbled away into the forest, this time bumping clumsily against the trees. “Don’t kill him. It’s my fault. I was the one who bothered him,” Hiccup confessed after recovering his fallen weapon. He could still feel his own heartbeat in his throat. He then approached his savior and patted his side with his left hand; with the other, Hiccup held his bruised cheek.

Toothless groaned, but decided to accept the request. He then sniffed with concern at Hiccup’s injury.

“Don’t worry about this. I fell, a little.”

The Night Fury then sniffed him thoroughly in search for other wounds, but, as soons he had confirmed that Hiccup was going to be fine, he assumed an expression of pointed indifference.

Of course, Hiccup was not completely fine. His cheekbone throbbed at blinding intervals, but he was going to wait to assess the damage. He wanted to return to their camp first, so he started walking towards it, the image of him appearing from the forest, triumphantly holding his first catch above his head, once again completely shattered.

Their return was infused with a heavy, uncomfortable silence. Toothless was obviously angry with him for risking his life, though this time it appeared he was reacting differently than usual. He wasn’t scolding him or puffing smoke at his face. He was probably expecting Hiccup to do something, most likely apologize for putting himself in danger. After all, Hiccup had already admitted to disturbing the wild dragon. It was his fault.

Hiccup did not feel so much guilt though, as he did disappointment. It was a familiar feeling, after the scoldings he often received. However, he had never been given the silent treatment before. He realized he much rather preferred being yelled at, instead of walking in this excruciating awkwardness. He had to say something. He could not bear to have Toothless be so quiet, which was rather ironic, he thought, since the dragon could not actually speak.

“I almost caught a rabbit this time, you know,” Hiccup said casually as they walked, nibbling his lower lip. He tasted blood. “Next time I’m sure-”

As expected, his sentence was cut off by the dragon’s disapproving snarl, which preceded a series of complex sounds and body language that, on a human, would typically accompany a long rant. Toothless was not talking of course, not with words at least, but his noises and gesticulations were definitely quite expressive, not to mention loud. Hiccup could somehow hear his father’s angry voice as he observed Toothless shaking his head, rolling his eyes, and stomping his front paws on the ground.

Once the Night Fury had stopped, Hiccup decided to address his irate friend, aware of the fact that he probably deserved every single puff of smoke Toothless had exhaled at him.

“I may have no idea what you said, but I want you to know _this_ ,” Hiccup began, stopping on his steps and positioning himself in front of the dragon.

“I am sorry. I was chasing the rabbit and… it’s my fault. I know you depend on me for flying bud’. I understand you are worried for a good reason. I just wanted to catch something by myself, for once, but then I saw a completely new dragon, and I thought I could maybe… nevermind. The important thing is: I promise to be more careful from now on. And next time I decide to get myself in danger like that, then we’ll be in danger together. Alright? What do you say?” Hiccup tried to meet the dragon’s stern frown with an expectant smile, hoping his stupidity hadn’t irreversibly damaged their precious relationship.

“Can… Can you forgive me?” He insisted when he became worried his friend was not going to answer.

Toothless looked away for a bit, then back at him, and nodded with a deeply solemn expression. The Night Fury seemed to be making peace with the notion that his rider’s recklessness was going to be a constant source of anxiety. Hiccup could not hold back a beaming smile of relief, or the sudden impulse to lean forward and tightly hug the dragon’s neck.

“You really are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispered, before breaking the hug. They resumed walking side by side, towards their camp.

“Oh, and thank you for saving me… _again_.” Hiccup added, scratching the dragon behind one ear, one of the Night Fury’s favorite spots. Toothless purred with pleasure.

They strolled unhurriedly on their way back. Hiccup was contemplating the fact that he had reached pretty far within the forest during this unsuccessful hunt, and suddenly realized something. He had not yelled too loudly when he was being chased. This meant Toothless could not have been _too_ far behind, if he had managed to hear him and catch up so quickly, saving him from the blind dragon. The only explanation was that he had followed him in secret, albeit keeping a considerable distance.

“So… how many times have you spied on me failing to catch a simple rabbit?” Hiccup inquired cheekily, glancing sideways at the dragon. Toothless pretended not to hear the question, averting his gaze.

“Not answering, huh? I see. You are trying to preserve my dignity.” Hiccup shook his head. “I’m afraid that ship has sailed, bud’.”

Toothless produced a low howl, and gently brushed his head on Hiccup’s shoulder.

“Oh great, dragon pity. Just what I needed.” Hiccup said, grinning. The dragon reacted with a playful shove that made Hiccup nearly trip.

Admittedly, Hiccup did feel a bit pitiful. To make matters worse, after they returned to their still rudimentary camp in the clearing, by one of the many streams on their deserted island, Hiccup noticed with some dismay that his recent fall had provided him with a slightly loose tooth, one of the newer ones at the back of his upper jaw.

He could still remember shedding his last milk tooth. In fact, less than a year had passed since that day. He was almost thirteen when he had realized he was the last among his peers to lose all his baby teeth. He still had one at that age, in that very same position.

As soon as he had found out, he had hurriedly gone to the forge while Gobber was out, and he had picked up a random object from the piles of scrap metal. He had used a polished axe for a mirror. The result had been a surprisingly painless, yet very bloody mess. Still, he had proudly managed to pull out that last stubborn baby tooth.

He recalled how he had casually pretended that the tooth had fallen naturally, when he had shown his father. Stoick, however, had not appeared to care as much as Hiccup had hoped. Hiccup had ended up consoling himself by kicking pebbles in the woods, and spitting blood on the forest’s floor, pretending to be a rough battle-worn warrior for a day. He could not help feeling stupid now about his naïve, yet not-much-younger self.

This day, alas, it wasn’t a milk tooth that wobbled painfully in his mouth, and there wasn’t much he could have done about it, besides try to chew on the left side, and hope that it wouldn’t fall.

While it didn’t seem like there was any need to worry (after all, the tooth wasn’t swaying _that_ much), he still could not shake off the feeling of being damaged, and terribly inadequate for life in the wilderness, unable to catch a single measly rabbit without risking his life. Most depressingly, he could not blame anyone but himself.

How long was it going to be like that? He wondered. How long till he could consider himself satisfied with what he had and who he was? Every single day since they had settled on Old Balheim was a constant fight between his need for purpose in life, his erratic determination, and the persistent fear that one day he’d fall again, and lose the will to get back up. Not to mention the crushing tedium of mere idle survival, where the sole prospect was to live through yet another day in exile, without any real direction, or plan, or ambition. Was that what his life had become?

Toothless was there for him, though. Toothless was Hiccup’s lifeline, and Hiccup was his as well. The thought did regularly soothe his unstable emotions. Even so, sometimes, Hiccup seemed to forget he wasn’t alone out there, and the lack of one who could truly answer back whenever he spoke would become almost unbearable. Other times, as if in conflict with his own mind, Hiccup would pleasantly remember what he was learning better and better each day: that it took only one being, one being who trusted and relied on him, even not human, to give him reason enough to live.

“I guess I’m just going to eat some of my bread tonight, bud’.” Hiccup sighed wearily as he searched for the tiny loaf that he had cooked on a small pan, which he had bought in Balheim’s village for a whole silver coin. He was still trying to figure out the recipe, but he had made some good progress there. He could have surely become a great _‘bread-making Viking’_ on Berk (beside blacksmith-apprentice of course) _,_ if only his father had listened.

“But, one of these days, trust me, I’ll catch something even for you.” Hiccup added in an attempt to restore his wavering optimism. “It’s just kind of hard to sneak up on a wild rabbit with a knife... I might need a different weapon.”

Toothless raised his head, ready to complain.

“So, I’m thinking… next time we go to Balheim, I’ll get myself a bow and arrows.”

_Enough self-pity._ Hiccup told himself as he carefully chewed a bite of bread, on the opposite side from his bruised tooth.

“I’ll learn to use it.”

_I must shape up._

“And then I’ll try again.”

_I refuse to give up after less than two months._

Toothless rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“Wait. Hear me out.” Hiccup continued. “From the next time, I want you to be by my side, but _just_ to protect me, while I learn to hunt. Actually, maybe you can teach me a few tricks too. What do you think?”

Hiccup didn’t wait for an answer before he shyly added his most pressing confession: “I know I can’t make it by myself. It was stupid of me to think that I could, and I almost died today because of that. So I will mostly rely on you. Deal?”

Once Hiccup was done expressing his thoughts, the Night Fury got up slowly, and circled the fireplace to get snout-to-face with his rider. Then, without any kind of warning, he brushed his large forked tongue on Hiccup’s face once, to show he approved, then twice, to show he was glad, then a third time, probably just for fun.

Hiccup forced himself not to flinch or face away. He wholeheartedly accepted the dragon’s affections (and spit), and only smiled gladly as he became a victim of his best friend’s infamous, but loving, attack. That night, Hiccup slept closer than usual to the warm scales of the dragon’s chest, within his dark, tender embrace. Being wrapped by the Night Fury’s wings made the dream of better days feel closer, as they slowly headed for tomorrow, together.

* * *

It was the third week of June, the month of the Sun. At least that’s what an old man dressed in white robes was bellowing in the muddy alleys of Balheim. Probably some priest, reminding the villagers to make offerings for the upcoming solstice celebrations. On Berk, they used to spill yak-blood in the fields for a good harvest, and as a symbol of fertility. Then they would drink into the night around a great bonfire, taunting the skies to bring forth the first dragon raids, so that the men could prove their worth in battle.

Here, in the south, Hiccup would have bet the Summer Solstice was celebrated much differently, but he was not curious enough to participate to the foreign village’s events. He didn’t feel comfortable among Vikings anymore, especially now that he had a secret fire-breathing companion. He was just thankful enough to confirm what the date was, for he had nearly lost count of the days of his exile.

_Finally two months since I left,_ Hiccup thought with some surprise at himself for surviving this long. He was doing rather well, but he needed to do better, which was why today he had flown to Balheim again, and, after leaving Toothless in the forest, he had sneaked into the village, to finally get his new weapon; a bow and arrows. He was felt positively excited.

Hiccup was looking for the weaponsmith, who was also the first blacksmith of the village, just like Gobber was on Berk. He found the shop quickly, on the eastern side of the river, by the outskirts, only a couple of houses from the strange wooden walls. The door was not shut, and a constant stream of smoke was coming out the top of the timber-and-stone structure. Hiccup timidly entered the shop.

The smell inside was nostalgically familiar: wood-shavings, iron, charcoal, leather, soot. The only missing scent was that of Gobber’s rather pungent body odor.

Hiccup spotted a slender but well-built man with long tied hair and a greying goatee. He was nothing like Gobber, which Hiccup found rather disappointing for some reason. He was older than his mentor, his eyes were a lively blue, and his face was etched with years upon years of soot and smoke and heat. The man merely glanced at the young patron, and then returned to his work over one of the three counters in the shop.

“Don’t you know how to knock, kid?” He asked, without interrupting what he was doing.

“Sorry, I… it was open so I-”

“How can I help?”

“I- I’m looking to buy a bow,” Hiccup explained. His pulse told him he was anxious. “Oh, and arrows.” He added hastily.

“Over there,” the man said, but did not point in any direction. Fortunately, Hiccup spotted a large collection of unstrung bows, resting horizontally upon hooks, which protruded from a tall stone wall by the opposite side of the workshop. He clumsily started to browse for a bow that fit his size, occasionally glancing back at the busy man, who appeared to have forgotten about him.

Hiccup was not very familiar with those kinds of weapons, since, at Gobber’s, he did not usually work on them. Of course, Hiccup _had_ built other machinery out of wood, like his bola launcher, but he had never been allowed to use good wood for them, which was probably why his weapons had always malfunctioned (except for the last one).

In general, northern Vikings did not care much about projectile weapons like bows and arrows, and, whenever necessary, people carved makeshift ones at home, barely good enough for hunting. Thus, while Gobber certainly knew how to make them, he was rarely asked to. The process of letting the wood appropriately dry for a bow could take months, if not years, especially considering that the word ‘dry’ had little place in the Berkian vocabulary. However, the most relevant reason for the low demand of bows and arrows was that northern Vikings could not use them when it _really_ mattered.

Arrows, particularly when pointed upwards, were far too weak to pierce a dragon’s scales. Bolas, chains, axes and swords were far more effective during raids. As a consequence, experienced bowmen were in very low demand on Berk.

Besides, according to tradition, when it came to fights between humans, long-distance weapons were for cowards. Hiccup had still tried to shoot a few times, under his father’s dissatisfied supervision, though he had never managed to get the arrow even close to the target, despite always getting the trajectory fairly right. He lacked the strength, but he was determined to work on it now.

Hiccup had always been fascinated by good craftsmanship, so he spent what must have been an unusually long time for mere browsing, before he finally found a bow that he liked. It was the shortest one, though it was still nearly as tall as he was, and it sported no fancy carvings or expensive decorations. Its only perk was that the tips of its limbs curved strangely away from the wielder.

“How much for this one?” He asked.

The blacksmith left his work aside and turned to see.

“Ah! That’s a fine one,” he claimed. “Ash wood. Short but springy. Might go for six pieces, stave and string both, unless you have anything to trade: wool, gut-line, furs... Leather would be best. 'Course, a sheep would pay for plenty of arrows too, if you had one.”

“I don’t have a sheep,” Hiccup replied, “but… _four, five, six..._ ” he extended his palm with six coppers in it. “Here.”

“Are you daft, boy?” The blacksmith almost howled. “Silver, you muttonhead! _Silver!_ Do you take me for some fool?”

“Oh! S-sorry…” Hiccup murmured, his face burning with embarrassment. He had always thought bows to be worth little, but this one cost as much as a tempered-steel knife, and half as much as a good axe!

_How can wood cost as much as steel?_ He wondered, yet somehow he knew this man was not cheating.

“That’s not even a normal bow you picked there, son.” The man grunted, folding his arms, partly offended, partly proud. “That bow’s curved in the southern fashion, like they use in the mainland you know.”

Hiccup, though unnecessary, opened his small satchel, pretending to check. Six silver coins and fourteen coppers was all he had left from Gobber’s gift of money. He couldn’t spend nearly all of it so quickly, and yet he did not want to ask for a cheaper weapon. Something told him that the bow he had chosen was the only one for him. The others were all too long, too hard to carry on dragonback.

“It’s also two for ten arrows,” the blacksmith added abruptly, shattering Hiccup’s hopes, even for a cheaper weapon.

“I… I can’t afford it,” Hiccup muttered under his breath. “But if you sell me the materials I could make one just like it myself. I’m pretty good at... _this_.” He gestured hopefully towards the many worktables, crowded with tools of every sort.

“Ever made a bow before, son?”

“No, but I’m _sure_ I can do it.” Hiccup said, and knew it was true, assuming he was allowed some time of trial and error. Blacksmithing and weaponsmithing were the only things he knew he was good at. “I was a weaponsmith’s apprentice for a few years,” Hiccup continued. “I’ve made quite a few-”

“I don’t care for your life story, kid,” the man said, not quite irritated, but getting close. “My shop ain’t for experiments, and I don’t have space for a second apprentice. So you either buy one, or you leave.”

“But…” Hiccup interjected hurriedly, trying to conceal his desperation. “I’ve made axes before!”

“ _Amazing_ ,” the blacksmith exclaimed with such intense sarcasm to rival Hiccup’s own. He placed his sooty hands on his hips. “And tell me, kid, how’s _that_ going to help?”

“I could make one for you. I can make a very good axe. Best tempered steel you’ve ever seen! Then, if you think you can sell it for enough coin, you give me the bow and some arrows in trade.” Hiccup tried to sound firm, mustering all his confidence. He knew he was good with axes, at least when it came to making them; not so much when he had to wield them.

“Best tempered steel I’ve ever seen, aye?” Repeated the man, an amused grin beginning to stretch his lips. “I like you, kid. What are you... twelve?”

“I’m _thirteen_ ,” Hiccup nearly squealed.

“ _Oh-ho!_ My bad. Practically a _man_ here!” The blacksmith chuckled heartily. Then, he wore a challenging grin on his face. “I’ll give you the steel and wood, you make the best one-finned axe I’ve ever seen. You have five days. If I like it, you get the bow, and If I _really_ like it _,_ let’s say... five arrows.”

“Twenty arrows,” Hiccup suggested, driven by the sudden thrill of striking a bargain.

“...Ten.”

“Deal!”

Overwhelmed with relief, Hiccup offered his right hand to shake.

The other man hesitated for a moment, looking surprised at the gesture, but he finally clasped Hiccup’s small hand in his own, leaving it black with soot, and a bit achy from the tight grasp. Before letting go, he also trailed his thumb carefully over Hiccup’s calloused palm, to check whether his guest was lying about ever working in a forge. He seemed satisfied.

“Ain’t you the confident little fellow,” he remarked with an amused smirk on his face. “I expect that axe to be able to shave the hair from a dragon’s ass.”

Hiccup frowned. “Dragons don’t _have_ hair,” he pointed out, perplexed, before realizing it was just one of the man’s expressions.

“Oh? And how would _you_ know?”

“Because…” Hiccup frantically browsed his mind for a good lie, “because I’ve _fought_ dragons,” He finally said, matter-of-factly. It was not a complete lie, though he did regret the choice.

Promptly, the man’s eyes widened with surprise. He then exploded in a fit of laughter. As he made his way out of the room, and towards some storage-chamber at the back, the blacksmith finally shouted:

“Five days!”

* * *

It was already the fourth day, when Hiccup began sharpening the the edge of the axe’s blade, using the roughest whetstone first. He was done with the hardest parts: welding, shaping, hardening, and tempering. Those were the steps that needed the most care, particularly the quench.

Hiccup had learnt it was best to dip the hot steel in the water edge-first, but only after using another piece of hot iron to preheat the water, which would otherwise shock the steel and make the axe-blade more susceptible to chipping.

Fortunately, he had been given some fairly good steel to work with; neither too hard and brittle, nor too soft and malleable. If this blacksmith had done the job himself, then he was either a very experienced smelter, Hiccup imagined, or a very lucky one.

Of course, Hiccup still had a lot to learn about smelting, since it was rarely performed, because of the high temperatures required to liquify iron ore. Most of what Gobber used in his forge came from older pieces of scrap-metal. New steel was mostly smelted when swords were ordered, and that was a rare occurrence indeed. In fact, it was almost an event for the whole village.

It was at those times, no more than twice a year, when Gobber's forge would become the center of attention for the whole island. New swords always gathered a crowd, and Hiccup liked to think the attention and praise were partly his own as well, since, as apprentice, he always helped out. It made him feel useful before the eyes of the village. Hiccup liked those days even more than his birthdays.

He still enjoyed forging smaller weapons by himself, as he was doing today in this southern village. Alas, he was only allowed in the workshop until noon each day, because the space inside was rather cramped, and when the blacksmith’s actual apprentice came in to work at noon, there was not enough room for the three of them. At least, that’s what the older youth had claimed two days before, visibly annoyed by Hiccup’s presence. This meant that, though he would enter the workshop at the crack of dawn, Hiccup was not really granted as much time as he had hoped.

In fact, it was still rather early in the morning of that fourth day, when the apprentice decided to show up for work. Suspiciously early. Hiccup still needed to finish sharpening the two blades with the medium and fine whetstones, so he could leave the handle and details for the last day. The axe had to be perfect.

“Oh, not _you_ again. What was your name?” Asked the apprentice, without even trying to hide his disdain for the younger guest.

“Thormund,” Hiccup replied. He had chosen the name Thormund as a pseudonym, just to be safe. Besides, he had always liked that mighty name much better than ‘Hiccup’, and now that he was an outcast, he could finally pretend like it was his own.

Despite his new name, however, Hiccup did not feel any less intimidated by the burly, black-haired boy, who, while being substantially bigger than him, could not have been much older, likely no more than fifteen years old. In fact, the apprentice was so big for his age, that he looked like he could have used Hiccup as a hammer, with Hiccup holding the heavy, welding hammer in turn. He looked a bit like a mixture of Snotlout and Fishlegs, though his annoyingly handsome face was all his own.

“Yeah, right, whatever. Listen, _Dorkmund_ , time to go. Come back tomorrow or something. My father needs his spear repaired and I can’t do it if you keep using my tools.”

“But…” Hiccup began, ready to protest as he turned to the master blacksmith, who was, uncommonly, _not_ the apprentice’s father.

Asmund (that was the blacksmith’s name) hummed playfully. “Come back later, Gunnar,” he said. “I’ll repair your father’s spear. It seems our young guest here knows his way around a forge. I’m curious to see what he’s got. But don’t worry, he won’t be taking your place... unless that axe can shave a dragon’s _ass-hair._ Right Thormund?”

“ _A dragon’s…?_ What are you talking about?” Gunnar barked, confused and irritated. Despite his physical build, Hiccup found the other boy to be surprisingly insecure.

“Ask _him_ ,” Asmund sniggered, nodding towards Hiccup.

Gunnar scowled at him. Hiccup just shrugged, pretending not to understand, which was not far from the truth. He did not care; he did did not have time to deal with the annoying apprentice anyway. He had to finish his job, if he wanted to get his bow.

Fortunately, Gunnar decided to leave the shop. He did not bring his father’s spear. It had probably been just an excuse to make Hiccup go away. Could it be that the older boy felt threatened by his presence in the forge? The thought made Hiccup smile. He had never considered himself to be threatening in any conceivable way. Was it because of his fancy new name?

As Hiccup kept working on the counter, just under the daylight pouring in from one of the two windows of the otherwise fairly dim workshop, he couldn’t help overhearing, and occasionally glancing, at a group of young kids, aged around six or seven years, playing with sticks and stones in the muddy alleyway. He had gotten used to hearing their cheerful voices in the morning, as they enjoyed their silly games. The hazy image of him doing the same with the other kids on Berk, before his mother had died, crossed Hiccup’s distant mind, though he wasn’t sure whether it was a real memory, or a melancholic wish that it had happened.

Not long before noon, the kids became involved in a very particular conversation, which caught Hiccup’s full attention. In fact, he had started timing his brushes with the finest whetstone, so he could hear each sentence clearly.

“A Night Fury? _Where?_ ” Asked one of the young boys.

“On Meathead Island,” A second boy said.

“I heard it was Berk.”

“Where is _that?_ ” Asked another.

“North.”

“My uncle said it’s invisible! No one can see it.” A younger girl pointed out.

“But my dad told me that they did. So it must be true. They really saw one!” Said the second kid.

“ _I_ heard someone was riding it,” Claimed a new boy, matter-of-factly.

“No way!”

“I bet the Night Fury was as big as… as my house!” Said the younger girl.

“Your house is _not_ big, Katla.”

“Yes it _IS!_ ” The little girl yelled in response, before they all moved their bickering further away, where their voices could no longer be heard.

Hiccup found it rather amusing to listen to those kids’ theories, especially since he actually knew the truth of the matter. Moreover, he was surprised to find out that the rumor about the Night Fury and the rider had spread so far south. Some of the villagers of Meathead Island (where he had been seen not two months before) had probably travelled to Balheim recently.

However, he was quite confused at hearing Berk being mentioned. He had assumed that Stoick would have struggled to keep the matter of his son a secret, at least from the other Viking tribes. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps it was impossible to keep such thing secret. Otherwise, how could the Meathead men have known it was an actual Night Fury they had seen? Someone from Berk had surely told them. Only Berkians knew what a Night Fury looked like.

Furthermore, if it was possible that word of Berk’s heir being in exile alongside a Night Fury had spread naturally as far as Balheim, should Hiccup need to worry about it?

At least he had made a good decision by giving a different name, he thought. If someone were to identify him, he would probably be in great trouble, and, most importantly, so would Toothless. The dragon could take care of himself, though, assuming his rider was safe first, so Hiccup knew he needed to make sure not to endanger his own clumsy self most of all.

Still, it was quite eye-opening to see information travel so fast within the Archipelago, despite the distances and adversities of sailing the Viking seas. Admittedly, Hiccup did not know much about sea-travel, or even about the origins and the destinations of the rare trading ships in the docks of Berk.

He did hear exotic names of course, but he was hardly allowed to check the precious maps, which were stored under lock and key in the great hall, as were most books on the island, so they’d be safe from the frequent dragon-fires. Therefore, Hiccup’s knowledge of the Archipelago was scanty, to say the least of it.

_Wasn’t dad supposed to teach me any of that stuff?_ Hiccup thought, releasing some of his frustration by pressing on the fine whetstone harder with the axe’s gradually emerging edge.

It was likely the Archipelago was smaller than Hiccup had previously imagined, but he was still sure he had travelled about two hundred leagues south. That was quite the distance. Then again, flying on a dragon was probably giving him a somewhat distorted idea of what traveling actually meant to normal Vikings. It had to be quite hard for the average ship to sail such distances. Yet ships clearly did sail them. In fact, Trader Johann had often claimed he travelled every year from the coasts of Hysteria, as far as the Mainland itself, beyond the infamous Wicked Waters.

Hiccup had always been suspicious of such claims. After all, despite some of Johan’s wares being quite strange, the great majority of his stories bordered on preposterous, so Hiccup had never believed the exuberant trader with the extravagant hat.

His stories were still fun to listen to, and Hiccup would always join the other kids as they eagerly gathered by his large ship when it docked on Berk, which was no more than thrice a year, if the ice wasn’t too bad. The ship was named ‘The Mare of Misery’, as the trader loved to point out each time. Johann would in fact talk of his ship like a man would of his beloved wife.

“So, Thormund, what are you going to use your bow for?” The blacksmith suddenly asked, stirring Hiccup from his thoughts of home.

“Uh? _Uhmm…_ hunting,” Hiccup said swiftly, without putting much thought into his reply. He had been far too absorbed by his musings.

“ _Hunting?_ That’s no mere hunting bo- _ooh..._ I get it now. You want to be like those dumb dragon-hunters looking for glory in the northern isles; making their foolish vows to bring home some Gorgeous Nightmare skull.” The man spoke with disapproval in his voice whilst working on some knives. “Let me tell you: they never come home in one piece those kids, _if_ they come home at all. Northern Vikings are madmen! Trust me, I’ve met quite a few Berserkers and Meatheads and whatnot… They’ll chew you up and spit you out before you even get your hands on your first dragon.”

“Tell me about it.” Hiccup mumbled under his breath, slightly vexed by the blacksmith’s words, though he couldn’t pinpoint the reason.

“What’s that?”

“Uh? Oh… yeah. I hear those guys are pretty tough.” Hiccup stated politely, resuming his work.

“Kids of the south like you ought to stay as far away from those scaly beasts as you can,” the blacksmith continued. “Many who go north in search for glory end up without a head! Better to waste that bow on rabbits, and leave the dragons to those insane enough to live so far north.”

_That’s what I’m planning, you old..._

Hiccup couldn’t find an attribute that was both acceptable and satisfactory enough to complete the comeback he was formulating in his head. He had a hard time not taking some offense at the blacksmith’s remarks. He also wondered why it had come so easily for the man to assume he was a southerner. Was it his gangly build? Or his mild temperament?

Either way, Hiccup, even though exiled by his people, had not surrendered his pride for being born in the north, although he was probably not ready to acknowledge it. That’s why his reply was slightly different:

“You can’t hunt dragons with arrows anyway,” Hiccup informed the man, without caring how bratty he sounded as he spoke. “Their scales are too tough. And it’s ‘ _Monstrous’_ Nightmare, not _‘Gorgeous’_ Nightmare,” he finally said, letting a hint of bad temper transpire from his voice.

Fortunately, the blacksmith did not have the time to question Hiccup about such knowledge, nor to admonish him for his sudden attitude, because a patron outside had just called the man from the window-counter furthest from Hiccup’s. Hiccup was thankful for the distraction, and continued working on his axe.

On the fifth and final day at the forge, not long before noon, Hiccup was almost done with the weapon (it still needed some carvings for the handle), when he finally overheard a completely new set of voices outside. The young kids usually playing in the alleyway had not come that morning.

At first, Hiccup did not pay much attention to the conversation. He was too focused on his work, and it was hard to listen, for the blacksmith had started using the anvil. Yet, something about that dialogue, and especially one of the speakers’ voices, made Hiccup pause what he was doing. He could not see where the voices were coming from, though, even when he leaned out of the window.

“I said he’s three and ten, thin and small, auburn haired. Have ya seen ‘im or not?” Said a male voice.

“You’d be willing to pay his weight in silver you say?” An elder villager asked greedily.

“Trust me old man, it wouldn’t be a good deal: the boy weighs like a bunch of sticks.”

The first man’s accent seemed rather familiar. Then again, it was hard to tell over the loud hammering of the master blacksmith.

“But yes, there is a reward for those who find ‘im, or capture ‘im, or take me to ‘im.”

Hiccup frowned worriedly, before panic started to set in his stomach. He was instantly drenched in cold sweat.

Was someone looking for _him_ on Balheim? He fitted the description, but he had been exiled, and he was outside of Alliance territory! Who would search for him _there_? And, most importantly, _why?_ Could it be that they wanted Toothless? Were they after the rare dragon’s head, or his own?

“So, ya know where he is?” The man asked again. This time there was no other response, just an excruciating silence. Then, all of a sudden, there were loud knocks at the door.

Hiccup’s hands lost their grip on the axe. He could finally remember the man’s voice, and a terrible fear made his blood freeze.

_Uncle Spitelout!_ Hiccup shouted in his head at the dreadful realization.

There was nothing Hiccup had ever feared more than what was happening at that very moment. He'd had recent nightmares about Berk coming after him and Toothless. What more did they want with him, if not to kill his friend? He was officially not his father’s son anymore, he was an outcast, so he could not afford to stay around and have that question answered.

Before the blacksmith could invite the new customer inside, Hiccup raced to the wall with all the bows, fighting the shivers of fright in his arms, and he took the weapon he had previously chosen, its string still rolled up around a tip. He then grabbed a random quiver full of arrows, without even counting them. There was no time to have the blacksmith assess his work. He had to take the bow and leave, hoping the blacksmith would be satisfied with the axe.

It felt a bit like stealing, but Hiccup had faith in his own craftsmanship. The arrows, however, he was actually stealing. Odin would forgive him, wouldn’t he?

Either way, time was up.

“Axe is done! Thanks for the bow!” Hiccup said hurriedly, feeling already short of breath as he climbed out of the workshop’s window. He did not turn to see the blacksmith’s reaction to his words.

“Hey! Isn’t that _him?!_ ”

“Wait!”

“Get him!”

Running, bow and quiver in hand, praying that all his attempts at chasing rabbits had made him at least half as fast as Astrid was, Hiccup glanced back to see whose mouths had spoken.

He had been right. It was indeed Spitelout and his men; they were coming after him fast, which did not seem to suggest any good intention on their part. And now that they had been promising random villagers a bounty for Hiccup’s capture, there was likely half of Balheim chasing after him as well. This was even worse than the nightmares.

Tomorrow was still so far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXTRA NOTE (Currency): After some research, I’ve tried to come up with a fairly plausible (though still sketchy) system of currency for this story. Of course, in medieval times, whenever bartering wasn’t an option, coins were still a rather complicated thing, and exchange rates even more so, what with the different cases of coinage debasement, inflation, and whatnot.  
> I’m always open to suggestions, but, for now, I decided to dumb it down in a way that will probably sound familiar to anyone who’s ever played any fantasy RPG:
> 
> 1 gold coin = 20 silver coins  
> 1 silver coin = 20 copper coins
> 
> with the additional detail that copper coins weigh 1g, silver coins weigh 2g, and gold coins weigh 4g, though it’s not important that you remember this.
> 
> * The piece of poetry at the top is taken from the metal song Heading for Tomorrow, by Gamma Ray.


	14. Secret

******(Toothless)**

 

Such a lively little creature; little eyes, little feet… little wings; so tiny and fragile, and yet, that little feathered creature, curiously pecking his snout, was still able to fly by itself, just as he once could, before his tail had been maimed. And fly the little bird did, when Toothless huffed with an annoyed pout. His eyes had begun to hurt from keeping them crossed too long, in the attempt to watch the small animal nervously explore the spaces between his muzzle-scales for food. He could not help feeling a faint, perhaps unfair touch of spite towards the innocent bird, as it fluttered hastily into the thick foliage of the forest.

Life had not been fair with him either. He had been too young when he had gotten himself captured by the queen’s spell, just on the verge of his sixth mating season. Even the mind of a mighty Night Fury was not able to fight against her vile will at that age, and perhaps at any age; Toothless was not planning to have that assumption ever tested. He still felt just as young, though his body had grown from the terrifying day of his enslavement.

Years had probably gone by, while his mind was being kept captive in that horrible semi-conscious state, to obey the queen’s bidding, to satisfy her insatiable hunger, to damage, degrade and ultimately corrupt his own pride. How many years? He’d rather never find out. So, Toothless had stoically accepted his physical growth, relegating the unclear memory of his lost time to the depths of his consciousness, determined not to think about it. Accepting the loss of his flight had been a much harder struggle, and, in a sense, it still was.

He did not hate Hiccup for it. He _couldn’t_ hate Hiccup for it. Although the boy had never openly apologized for being the one who had shot him down that night, Toothless had already figured out his rider’s feelings on the matter.

The little human had eventually spared his life the next morning, when Toothless had woken up free from one type of bondage, immediately into another, and a tailfin poorer. So, no, he could not hate Hiccup, even though he had truly wanted to, at first. After everything the boy had done to help him fly again, hatred was unattainable. That little boy with curious lonely eyes, that gangly biped who had taught him how to ‘smile’ the way humans did, was likely the last creature in the world he could have hated. There were some moments, though, such as this day, when Toothless felt rather… irked.

Whenever Hiccup was not around, or at least within the reach of his sense of smell, Toothless would lose the only means he had to fend off the suffocating feeling of having fallen back into bondage, hideously tied to the earth like any other inferior rat, or squirrel, or boar, or… even as any human. He sometimes wondered how creatures as intelligent as humans could manage to stay sane without flying. How could their minds accept such a hideous fate so easily?

It was not important, as long as Hiccup stayed with him. When Hiccup was by his side, even when they were not up in the air, Toothless felt safe. He felt whole again, thanks to the boy’s ingenuity, as if his tailfin had never been lost.

However, Hiccup had recently decided to work in a foreign village, in order to obtain some hunting weapon; such an unnecessary struggle. Now that they had fled from Berk, Toothless would always be there for him, so why did Hiccup try so much? He had nothing to prove. At least, that’s what Toothless thought.

Still, try as he might not to resent waiting for his rider, he could not bear to be parted from him for even a single wingbeat, and the fact that Hiccup was his only means of flight was not the only motive, though it was surely a more-than-reasonable source of anxiety.

The soft sounds of the forest, and even the stray rays of sunlight, breaking through the leaves and warming his scales, did little to soothe his nerves. Toothless just wanted Hiccup to come back as quickly as possible. He did no know, however, that his wish was about to be granted much sooner than he had been anticipating, but only as a consequence of very different and more troublesome circumstances.

It was still rather early, a short while before midday, when some strange noises began disturbing his uneasy slumber. Distant human voices among the trees, cries and yells of running people getting closer and closer.

Toothless rose worriedly. Had he been spotted? Should he need to hide? What was going on? Before he could make a decision, the breeze carried a mixture of scents to his keen nostrils. In that mixture, there were some familiar smells, one of which, most shockingly, belonged to his own rider.

All of a sudden, the situation became gravely clea. Hiccup was being chased by a group of undoubtedly ill-intentioned humans, and some of their scents Toothless could remember from Berk itself. Toothless required no further thought. His only means of flight was in peril. His little human friend needed help urgently. _Again._

Toothless began to track the source of the sounds in the forest. It was not long before he could see the running boy, and, just a few wingspans further, the group of Vikings hard on Hiccup’s heels, some of their weapons dangerously unsheathed. Even Hiccup was carrying something, though it looked much less menacing. Was that the new weapon for which he had been working? It did no look particularly powerful. It was just a thin, arched stick, with a rope coiled to one end.

Toothless wailed so his rider could spot him, and he prepared for Hiccup to climb on his back.

“Toothless! We’re leaving!” The panting boy cried, sweat dripping from his forehead.

“There’s the Night Fury!” Yelled a strong woman.

“Don’t let them fly!” Shouted another man, whose voice Toothless had heard before. It was Hiccup’s uncle, the one who was in the arena when they had escaped from Berk. His name, Toothless recalled, was Spitelout.

When Hiccup reached him, he hastily mounted on his back, and, as soon as the breathless boy sat upon him, Toothless began to gallop in the opposite direction.

In the meantime, the Vikings chasing them had gotten much closer, but Toothless could not fly yet. The forest was so thick with trees that no average dragon could extend his wings. Thus, Toothless hurried towards the clearing where they used to land in the mornings, each time they got on Balheim. It was very close, but so were their pursuers.

Toothless was faster, of course, but before he could gain some distance, another man roared boldly: “I’ve got this!”

“Toothless! Watch out!” Hiccup yelled, looking back.

Toothless feared the meaning of those words, and, without slowing down, he turned his head to see an axe flying straight in their direction. In that breakneck situation, he could no run even the slightest risk of throwing his rider off his back, as the boy was not yet fully settled into the stirrups.

Toothless decided not to dodge. Instead, as fast as he could, he sucked in some air, mixed it with gas inside his throat, and shot a small, blue fireball at the twirling weapon. His aim was as good as ever, and the shot stopped the axe in mid-air, but part of the blue ball of flames continued towards their attacker, and exploded onto his shield, making the man stumble and fall in a cloud of splinters and smoke. Unfortunately, the man looked relatively unhurt, but there had been no time to charge a more powerful shot.

It was the brawny woman’s turn to shout: “Allow me!”

Toothless did not wait for Hiccup to warn him this time, and as soon as he heard her voice, he sidestepped beside a tree, keeping his pace. He nonetheless looked back to see the result of his evasion.

“Shit!” The woman exclaimed at her failure, still running after them.

Something was odd, though. Toothless did manage to dodge the flying weapon, but the axe had not seemed aimed at Hiccup. It appeared to be aimed at his own back instead; perhaps only at his tail. This was rather strange. In fact, on second thought, the previous man had also seemed to aim at the tip of Toothless’ tail, perhaps where the prosthetic fin was fastened.

Could that have been a coincidence? Were they not trying to kill them? They could have aimed at Hiccup, or at some of Toothless’ more vital parts. Sure, they could have killed them after managing to keep them on the ground, but, given the situation, Hiccup, or even a wing, were much easier targets.

_Are they only trying to stop him from flying away?_ Toothless wondered. Maybe they were not actually trying to kill his rider, but why only aim towards the tail? Were they trying to keep him alive too? Perhaps he was just overthinking this, but he still found it curious. So, though he did gain some distance, he decided not to increase his speed too much, hoping for further clues.

Hiccup began shouting from his back: “Toothless, faster! They’re gaining on us! Why aren’t you-” Before he could finish his sentence, they had reached the wide grassy clearing.

Toothless kept running forward, until he made sure that all their pursuers had emerged from the tree-line. Then, he took to the sky with a powerful jump, much to Hiccup’s relief.

Spitelout bellowed a loud “ _Fuck!_ ”, tossing his horned helmet on the ground once his target was out of his grasp, panting.

Toothless flapped his wings to rise higher, yet he didn’t leave the area. They had reached a safe distance now, but his incredibly acute ears could still pick up on the voices of the Vikings below. He wanted to hear what they were saying, ignoring Hiccup’s tired tugs at the saddle.

“Toothless! Let’s leave!” His rider was squealing breathlessly from his back, but Toothless yowled for the hatchling to wait. He kept circling the clearing from up high, with his ear-plates trained towards the earth, listening at the crew of bickering humans.

“Damn Night Fury broke my shield!” Said the first man who had attacked them.

“When did Stoick's runt become so fast?!" A second man exclaimed, gasping for air. He had been slower than the others.

“Maybe we should’ve told 'im about yer deal _before_ he started runnin'. Eh, Spitelout?”

"You _idiot_!” Screamed the outraged Spitelout. “We need to hold the Night Fury _first_! Otherwise what makes ya think he'll cooperate?!”

The first man, who was removing wood splinters from his forearm, decided to intervene: “At least we should have told ‘im his exile is for just two years. He might have gotten distracted if we did, then we could have caught 'im better, and lured the Night Fury later."

“Are you soft in the head too?!” Spitelout screamed again. “What makes ya think he'd have stopped to listen when ya were chasing him with yer axe in hand?! Who told ya to take out yer axe?! And what if ya had hit _him_?”

“I was aiming for the tail-thing!” The first man replied defensively. “And we’re up against the Night Fury. Who could know when it would turn up? I had to be ready. And who would’ve thought the little shit could run like _that_ anyway?!”

“Jorunn's right,” the second man added. “We all thought we’d have him by one stretch of the hand. Wasn’t he born a cripple or something? This kid could almost win the Thawfest Games.”

Spitelout looked exasperated. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, when the burly woman finally decided to speak:

"Well, now he knows we're after him,” she began, both hands clasping her broad hips, “what do we do, Spitelout? He probably thinks we're trying to kill him. He won't stay still for us to catch the Night Fury. How will ya blackmail him without a hostage?” She asked, but then continued. “Next time we find him I say you just kill the boy, and be done with it. Don’t worry ‘bout _me_ telling Stoick… never really liked the man anyway.”

Jorunn, the man with splinters of broken shield in his forearm, sneered cheekily: “Ya’re just sayin’ that ‘cause he always had eyes for Valk-”

“I won’t soil my hands with blood of my blood, Brunhilda!” Spitelout spat angrily, interrupting Jorunn’s teasing remark.

“Tch!” The woman named Brunhilda scoffed, twisting her lips with disdain.

“Why aren’t they leaving?” Asked another man, looking up towards them.

“ _Toothless?!_ ” Hiccup hissed in his ear, as if on cue. “Come on! Let’s go!”

His rider had grown restless on his back, and the young human’s ears were clearly unable reach the voices below. Toothless finally decided to  glide out of his constant, circular trajectory, and flew west towards their island. As he did so, he heard one last remark from his rider’s uncle.

“I don’t know… keep yer eyes up,” Spitelout said. “But, if what Brunhilda says is true, if he thinks we’re tryin’ to kill ‘im, maybe he'll just fly far away, and _stay_ away for good, never to come back. But I can’t afford to hope for that yet. We’ll find them apart again. Next time bring the bolas, even for the boy. A bruise or two won’t matter if we have...”

Toothless failed to hear the rest of the conversation. He had flown too far, and not even his Night Fury ears could pick up such distant sounds anymore. He could now think on what he had heard, and he did so, frenziedly.

_A deal with Hiccup? Two years of exile? Keep me hostage?_ _What does Spitelout want? Blackmail? What’s ‘blackmail’? It doesn’t sound good._

If what Toothless understood was correct, it was a good thing that they had managed to escape, but for very different reasons than he had formerly expected. In fact, even Hiccup did not seem to know what the other Vikings wanted from him. Perhaps it was better this way. Perhaps it was a good thing that Hiccup had not heard about his banishment being for only two years, assuming it was true. Perhaps it was a good thing if Hiccup thought they wanted to kill him. And, apparently, that was exactly what the boy had inferred from the situation:

“I can’t believe they were looking for me all this time!” Hiccup complained, once they were halfway back to Old Balheim.

“Why won’t they just let me rot in exile?!” He grunted. “If they just came to kill _you_ by finding me first, then I’d soon end up dead too! I mean, they must know I can’t make it out here by myself! Unless... Unless, they meant to take me back. But I’m an outcast, and outcasts are executed. And I’ve likely been disowned, so... Either way I end up dead! Does my father want me d-... no, I…” Hiccup exhaled wearily, lying with his back along Toothless’ spine, but keeping his feet in the stirrups.

“I can’t believe he wants me dead,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “I just... can’t. I’m not his son anymore, but still, even _he_ wouldn’t go _that_ far. Right?” He paused to calm his breathing.

As they flew, Toothless tried cooing softly at him, but there was nothing he could say, not in a way that his rider could hear at least, though even if there had been a way, Toothless still did not know what he _could_ have said. Night Furies were capable of many things, but giving consolation was not one of them.

Once his voice was back to normal, Hiccup sat up again: “What if it’s just Spitelout who wants to kill me,” he said. “But… no, this makes no sense. If Spitelout is out here, it’s because my father sent him. Maybe I should have heard if they had something to say-”

Toothless barked his disapproval immediately.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. They _were_ throwing axes at us, weren’t they?”

Toothless crooned agreement.

He was thankful that Hiccup's hearing was not nearly as sharp as his, and, although it made him feel slightly ashamed to admit it, he hoped his rider would never come across the information he had just gathered, for he could still see the boy’s uneasy attachment to his birthplace. Toothless feared that attachment. He feared that, if Hiccup ever found out that those men had not meant to harm him, even if their intentions were not entirely good, the boy would, at some point, demand to go back. Toothless could not run that risk. He was going to do everything in his power to keep Hiccup as far away from Berk as possible, which meant they couldn’t stay on Old Balheim anymore, they had to move even farther. Thankfully, Hiccup's thoughts were aligned with his.

“Ugh! To Helheim with them! I guess we’ll have to leave these islands too, and find another place even _more_ south.”

Toothless crooned again for agreement.

“Summer ends in a few months,” Hiccup continued. “Spitelout won't be sailing when the sea starts to freeze. Who would have thought we'd be safest during winter, eh bud'?" He sighed, caressing his side affectionately.

Toothless replied with a purr.

“At least I got a bow. Look,” the boy said, extending his new weapon above Toothless’ head, so he could observe it while flying. “I kind of had to steal it, though. But I wouldn’t have, if Spitelout hadn’t found me,” Hiccup admitted, without concealing his remorse. “I never stole anything before, but I almost finished a very good axe to pay for it. Still… I did steal more arrows than I was promised as I left. I didn’t have time to count them. Let’s just hope Balheim’s weaponsmith doesn’t start chasing me across the Archipelago too, right?” He said the last part almost seriously, but there was finally mirth too in his words.

Toothless was glad to see his rider had managed to set aside the renewed thoughts of his former home and kin. He wasn’t just glad in fact, but actually proud to see Hiccup regain his positive attitude so quickly. He hated seeing the little human downtrodden, depressed, or worse, crying, as he already had too many times for his liking.

“So, what do you think? Do you like it?”

Toothless warbled with a very generic tone. He did not know how the weapon worked. It looked rather harmless to him.

Hiccup apparently understood the meaning behind that sound. “I’ll show you how it works another time. First we have to get our stuff from our camp.”

Toothless landed gently in their camp on Old Balheim. He waited for Hiccup to prepare for leaving. The boy gathered his belongings, pelts, clothes, pots, pans, and all the other tools that humans appeared to require in order to survive. Humans were indeed unique creatures.

Once Hiccup was done cramming everything in the usual basket, he tied it to the saddle.

“Alright,” he said, before checking his surroundings one last time. “I’m glad I didn’t build a house on this island; it would have been a completely wasted effort. Right, bud’?”

Toothless huffed dubiously. He could still not see the point of Hiccup building a shelter, when his own wings could provide his rider with all the shelter that he was ever going to need.

“Trust me, when winter comes, even your wings can’t protect me from the cold all the time,” Hiccup said, responding to Toothless’ thoughts.

Toothless cocked his head. He was regularly surprised by the human’s ever-improving ability to understand him. It was uncanny. Without even trying to communicate words with his rider’s mind, Hiccup would occasionally understand him nonetheless. Perhaps Toothless was never going to need to actually use words with his rider, though it would have still been a useful thing to be able to do.

Alas, Toothless knew by now that humans could not use their inner voice or ear. After Hiccup had confessed to hearing voices during his feverish state, one month prior, Toothless had tried to reach out to Hiccup’s mind a few times, wishing, hoping, but without success, nor further hints thereof.

_Just a coincidence,_ he had thought dejectedly.

“Off we go, bud’” Hiccup said, jumping on the loaded saddle. “Let’s just hope we find land before nightfall.”

Toothless obeyed promptly, and they were quickly among the clouds once again.

“Wait!” His rider yelled against the wind. “Let’s go south _and_ east! Spitelout saw us fly west from Balheim, so we should be harder to find if we go east instead. Don’t you think?”

Toothless welcomed the clever suggestion by veering his one tailfin and twitching his wings accordingly, which was all the signal Hiccup needed to adjust the prosthetic fin with his foot-pedal; the boy required no further gestures to understand.

South and east was their direction. Noon was replaced by late afternoon, when Toothless spotted the first large island on their path. It was very big, about the size of Berk, but it appeared to be already densely populated, unfortunately. Two mountain peaks, one of which an apparently spent volcano, emerged from the sea, and old forests coated their steep sides. A sizeable village extended from one shore, deep into the island. It was likely that the humans were even more numerous here than on Berk.

“This must be Thargran. Home to the… what was it? I’m sure I heard the tribe’s name before. Their crests were all over the ships in Balheim’s docks,” Hiccup explained. “Let’s just keep this island as reference, and find some place nearby.”

So, they flew past Thargran, until Toothless spotted a few dragons on the horizon, flying towards the distant skies to the east; they were probably too far for Hiccup’s human eyes to identify them. It was a small flock of the kind that Vikings called Gronckles, and they were travelling freely, clearly unbound from the queen’s control. Perhaps they were close to some nesting grounds, Toothless thought, and gradually steered towards them, thinking there were higher chances of finding land in that direction. He was soon proven right.

When his rider noticed the second island on their path, he prompted Toothless to land. He needed to rest and eat, but very soon they were soaring again, as that island was, according to Hiccup, both too close to Thargran, and too small to have an adequate amount of wildlife. They needed to look further.

The sun, setting, began to warm their backs, tinting the clouds in oranges and yellows, the colors mirrored perfectly by the calm sea. This was the best time for being in the sky, and Hiccup seemed to enjoy flying at that particular hour even more than usual; Toothless could tell by his rider’s impulse to sit up straight, spreading his tiny arms, like a second pair of imaginary wings on his back. Hiccup wiggled his fingers against the air, and, whenever Toothless glanced behind, he would see the sincerest fraction of a smile upon the boy’s face, mixed with the smallest hint of fear; the exciting fear of falling, or being blown away by the wind. It was the same expression Hiccup had worn when flying for the first time. It always reassured Toothless to know that, despite so many months together, even mere gliding was still a mesmerizing experience for his rider.

Although it was slightly harder to keep his speed when Hiccup sat up like that, Toothless never complained. He just flapped a bit faster to maintain his altitude. He reveled in the notion that his rider could actually feel what it was like to have wings. To a Night Fury, flying was the very thing that made life worthwhile. Toothless could not begin to imagine why, but sharing his wings with a human made the experience all the more interesting.

They had left Balheim at midday, and it was already past sundown when Hiccup finally chose a place where to settle.

Showered by the cool tinges of twilight, this island appeared to be less than half the size of Old Balheim. The deep, shady mouth of its lone but tall volcano housed a small glacier, which was the source of the island’s many thin waterfalls and rivulets. Most of the mountain’s feet seemed permanently concealed in low, misty clouds. The forest was rich with both slender saplings and proud old trees, heavy with needles or dark-green leaves. The resources seemed abundant, and the clearings plentiful, and, most importantly, it was not inhabited. Not by humans at least.

“This place looks nice. What do you think?” Hiccup sounded pleased, but his voice did betray some exhaustion. It had been a long day for his rider.

“This could very well be our next home. Seems big enough, and I think I see water, and… there! There’s sand!”

Toothless veered towards the northern shore, which appeared slightly more hospitable thanks to the sandy beach, whereas the southern side was almost entirely trailed with cliffs. The island was indeed uninhabited by humans, but the clear scents of a small number of dragons soon reached his nostrils. This place was definitely not far from some nesting grounds.

Despite the fact that mating season was soon about to begin, the different dragons’ scents didn’t give off a particularly aggressive attitude, nor did they appear particularly ill-inclined. In fact, one dragon appeared rather welcoming to the mighty Night Fury, or so Toothless had believed, for the little Terrible Terror (as Vikings used to call them) was instead more interested in his rider, who had just slid off his back, and, after removing his rather tattered boots, was now enjoying the sand with his bare feet.

The small twitchy dragon approached curiously, sniffing the air with short, nervous breaths. He was mostly bright green, but his top, and the tips of the tendril-like fins on his back, were colored red. The Terrible Terror squawked to get Hiccup’s attention. Toothless refrained from growling. Free Terrors were rather harmless, especially when alone.

“Hey, little guy” Hiccup said pleasantly, forgetting to remove the heavy basket from Toothless’ back. He crouched lower upon the sand to be on the same level with the other dragon, and extended a welcoming hand to pet the small animal. “Do you live here?” He asked, as the little Terror leaned gleefully into his hand, clearly enjoying the friendly scratches below the chin.

“AAUGH!!! Thor’s fff…” Hiccup suddenly screamed and hissed, making Toothless jump in alarm.

Toothless was ready to tear the little green beast apart, when he noticed that what had caused his human to yell was actually a tiny crab, which had bitten Hiccup’s bare foot. The crab was immediately flung in the air by the boy’s sudden jolt of pain.

Before Toothless could relax again, the Terrible Terror readily shot a small, but very quick ball of fire towards the tiny crab, before it fell on the ground. He then rushed to the dead creature and picked it up with his teeth. He finally offered it to Hiccup. It was an unusually friendly gesture for the often selfish species.

_Annoying little thing,_ Toothless thought to himself. He couldn’t help feeling left out, which was a strangely new feeling to him, one he did not like at all. Besides, his annoyance was justified; his prosthetic fin was chafing his tail, the basket was still weighing on his back, and his rider had completely forgotten about both!

“Whoa! Nice shot!” Hiccup exclaimed, picking up the dead, semi-cooked crab. He did not refuse the offering. “Thanks, little guy. How about I give you a name? I’m going to call you…” he mumbled thoughtfully, “Sharpshot!”

_Sharpshot?!_ Toothless huffed, rolling his eyes, as Sharpshot happily licked his rider’s hand. _How about ‘Barely-Decent-Shot’!?_ He yelled inside, though his pouting went unnoticed.

Yes, Toothless decided, this tiny, jolly, and annoyingly lovable dragon was definitely too friendly for his liking. Without Hiccup seeing him, he squinted at the little Terror.

To Toothless’ utter shock, in a display of absolute, unbelievable impudence, the little Terror stuck his tongue out.


	15. Kings of Sky and Earth

**(Toothless)**

 

The dawning, midsummer sun was still burning the morning fog away, when Hiccup began to jostle Toothless out of his slumber.

“C’mon. Time to eat!” The little human said eagerly under his breath.

Toothless grunted. He was still sleepy, and not hungry enough to fight through the drowsiness. Hiccup had turned out to be quite the early riser, though, whereas the Toothless enjoyed his naps to be long and frequent.

“Let’s catch us some fish!” Hiccup insisted with a slightly louder whisper.

Toothless opened one eyelid, looked around tiredly, then closed it again, and went back to sleep. The other dragons were still snoring contentedly on the beach, or among the trees behind them. That’s where Hiccup had decided to set up camp, since the couple of small caves at the feet of the volcano were too hard to reach, and too rough to comfortably sleep in. They would only stay there when it rained, but mostly for the human’s sake, because dragons were rather indifferent to being wet. Most of the days, they would spend their time here, where the forest’s floor met with the wide, long sandy beach. That’s where they were all sleeping this morning.

There were three Terrible Terrors curled upon the sand, near the exhausted bonfire, their bellies and backs going up and down rhythmically with their breathing. One was Sharpshot, the first of the dragons who had approached them since their arrival on that island, not two weeks prior. The other two, Hiccup had named Bolt and Twitch. They were all male.

Bolt was orange and yellow, slightly bigger and faster than the other two, but definitely more reserved, especially with Toothless, who appreciated this behavior over Sharpshot’s audacious familiarity both with him and his rider.

The other Terror, Twitch, was the smallest of the three, yellow all over. He appeared to be the slowest too, both physically and, somehow, even mentally; the little dragon would often enjoy chasing his own tail, or flying jaggedly in purposeless circles, and he seemed unable to muster enough flame. He also seemed to fear Toothless the most, but he did adore Hiccup’s friendly and gentle character. This explained why Twitch liked to take short catnaps by the human’s feet, while the boy sketched on his journal, but only on the admittedly rare occasions when Toothless was not already coiled protectively around him, or whenever Sharpshot did not butt in instead, demanding all the attention.

Then, there was Khnut, a large yellow-green, two-headed, two-tailed Zippleback, whose gender neither Hiccup nor Toothless had yet figured out. It was strangely complicated with those dragons, since their scent was no good indicator. In fact, Toothless suspected those kinds of dragons had the ability to change their gender with time. He was not certain of this though, nor did he have the interest to enquire, or to investigate the matter from up close, and Hiccup seemed to lack the nerve to do it himself.

So, his rider had ended up naming the dragon simply Khnut, because he (or she) would always sleep with its two long necks tangled together. All Zipplebacks were indeed odd and fickle creatures, which made Toothless feel a bit uneasy around them, though this one appeared likeable enough. Khnut had even brought them fish once, a cod for each head.

Finally, somewhere behind the nearby tree-line, hidden amongst the bushes, lay a female Monstrous Nightmare, her scales a red deep as blood. She was very young, not yet of mothering age, and quite timid for a dragon of that kind. She would usually keep her distance, and eye them curiously from the forest. She was so cautious, that Hiccup hadn’t noticed her presence for almost a week. When she had finally decided to approach them, Hiccup had welcomed her joyfully, almost too much for the wary dragon, who had not fully opened up to them yet. Hiccup had called her Dreyri, but he often referred to her as ‘the Shymare’. Toothless had found the name funny. The human language was so full of possibilities.

There were probably a couple more dragons on the farthest side of the island, beyond the dormant volcano, but they weren’t planning to approach their camp, either intimidated by Toothless’ presence, or the human’s, or confused by their strange coexistence.

Still, no matter their location on the island, all the dragons were sleeping placidly, undisturbed. All except for Toothless now, who could no longer ignore his rider thrusting him back and forth with all of his strength, which was barely enough to make him bob a single claw.

“Come _ooon,_ bud’,” Hiccup hissed a little louder, trying not to wake the others. “I’m hungry!” He complained.

 _Oh… we can’t have that, can we?_ Toothless said to himself, yawning, stretching his limbs and wings in every direction.

Hiccup was likely not as hungry as he had claimed. Toothless knew it was probably a fib to get his lazy rump up, but he never regretted obliging his rider. In fact, he always secretly enjoyed waking up to fly; he just liked to play difficult.

Toothless had never considered himself a playful dragon in the past. Night Furies were supposed to be stern, noble beings; yet here he was, changing every day since his fateful meeting with the little human. And, whenever Toothless behaved like a cheeky hatchling, he would fail to feel the appropriate shame, thought that sort of thing happened exclusively in Hiccup’s presence. He was still a fearsome king to every other creature, even if a little broken. However, as a Night Fury, he had no interest in using his might to oppress anyone, unlike some other ancient dragons.

When Toothless was ready, Hiccup offered him a candid, grateful smile. He then buckled the saddle and prosthetic fin on him, and they were up into the clear morning sky, just the two of them and the rising sun, leaving their new companions to enjoy the last of their dreams before waking. Despite getting up earlier than he would have liked, Toothless loved these moments, and he knew the boy appreciated them even more.

As soon as his wings had warmed up, their acrobatic dance began. Hiccup had so much experience with the prosthetic contraption by now, that Toothless was sure he could fly again just as well as any adult Night Fury. The boy could predict every movement of his, and adjust the tail-fin accordingly at the right moment.

They flew high up, and higher still, until the air became thin and cold, and the horizon expanded to include new distances. Driven by ravenous curiosity, Hiccup asked, as he did every day, to go further up. He wanted to determine how far he could see beyond his usual horizon. Perhaps the boy wished to touch the edge of the sky itself, but Toothless knew better, and Hiccup had begun to figure it out as well; human lungs could not breathe after a certain height. In fact, even dragons had a deadly limit, at about twice that altitude, an altitude which Toothless had tried to experience as a youth, when he was both free and whole, making him, for a few blissful moments, behold the roundness of the earth. Sadly, he would never be able to show Hiccup that spectacle.

Toothless granted his rider’s demands for just a little longer. It was summer, and the air as warm as it could ever get at those altitudes. So, they rose further, as if to beat the dawning sun to its daily summit. For those few precious wing-beats, there was nothing above their heads; no birds, no clouds, no moon, no sun, and the stars had faded with the early twilight. It seemed like the whole universe resided below just the two of them, and they were both its kings.

When the moisture they had carried from the sea began to freeze upon their bodies, whitening his scales and Hiccup’s auburn hair, Toothless began to protest with concern for the boy’s health. Breathless and shivering, Hiccup gave up without delay, patting him on the neck. Promptly, Toothless folded his wings.

He dropped fast, gaining great speed and letting the gradually warming air scrape the frost off his wings. They kept falling for long, exciting moments towards the sea, until Hiccup gave the signal, and Toothless smoothed out his flight.

Hiccup was breathing heavily through a huge, manic grin. His hair was as if glued backwards with sap; it made Toothless snort with laughter when he glanced at him, but Hiccup was too thrilled to notice.

“I think I saw as far as Thargran this time! Imagine how far one could see from even _higher_ up!” The boy exclaimed with wonder, once they were at sea level.

Toothless did not bother to respond, knowing that Hiccup could not hear his objections. He just looked back with an expectant smile.

“Oh, right! Food! After you, bud’,” Hiccup said courteously, making a broad, welcoming gesture with one hand towards the calm, morning waves.

Toothless peered intensely upon the surface of the sea. When he finally spotted a large school of salmon, he reduced his altitude, playfully grazing the water with one claw, and scooping up plenty of fish between his jaws. He did not fully dive, though. Trying that once had been more than enough, according to his soaked, coughing rider, so he had been compelled to devise a new, drier fishing method, albeit less efficient.

“If you could _not_ swallow mine, that would be great,” Hiccup pointed out casually.

Toothless grunted, gulping down all the tasty mouthful for himself. What was wrong with freshly regurgitated fish? Sharing food like that was supposed to be a sign of friendship. Not for humans, apparently. Toothless ended up biting another salmon, which he then offered to his rider by bending his head backwards mid-flight. Hiccup grabbed it, and rolled the still wriggling fish in a large piece of cloth, which he then tied to his back, making a knot across his chest. The boy was going to _‘cook_ ’ the fish, as usual.

 _What a waste of a perfectly good fish,_ Toothless thought for the umpteenth time.

That’s when he realized they were no longer alone. The other dragons had woken up, and they had decided to join them. The three Terrors, Khnut, and even the timid Shymare, were all flying beside them, making lively noises and air-flips as they caught their share of food. Twitch was having some difficulty, and Hiccup demanded they wait for him, before they started to chase each other playfully in the air.

This time, it was Hiccup who finally chose to turn the game into an actual (if a bit unfair) competition.

“ROAAAAWOOOOO!” The shout came right from the Toothless’ back.

He turned to stare at his rider with great surprise, and a fair amount of mirth. There was no mistaking it; even though quite un-dragonlike, the sound Hiccup had tried to produce was a call for being followed, which could also imply a challenge, or a call for help, depending on the situation. He had never expected Hiccup to boldly call for a race with a draconic verse. Toothless felt almost proud of him, but mostly amused by the thought of a human hatchling pretending to be a dragon.

“What are you looking at? I can speak dragon too, you know. _Raaawrrrr!_ ” Hiccup roared mockingly with a large, spirited smirk, his cheeks slightly redder than usual. “It’s _you_ who can’t speak human, bud’,” He added smugly, the smirk never leaving the boy’s lips.

Toothless frowned, narrowing his eyes with fake scorn. “ _No, you silly hatchling. It is YOU who can’t hear me speak,”_ Toothless said, though his inner voice went unheard as always.

The other dragons were still trying to figure out if they had understood the human correctly, when Toothless echoed his rider’s call with thrice the vigor, using both his inner and outer voice. Soon enough, each of their flying companions gave a response to the challenge.

Dreyri and Twitch produced noncommittal growls, emitting a feeling of respectful refusal. They weren’t interested. Khnut, Bolt and Sharpshot, however, roared fervently, and the race back to their island began. Toothless, as a Night Fury, had the obvious advantage, but he did not flaunt his full speed right away.

They were having a delightful flight, when Sharpshot, being the slowest of those who had joined the race, decided to cheat. He flew along Toothless’ tail, to finally settle behind Hiccup’s back as a passenger. Nobody seemed to complain, except for Bolt, who barked disapprovingly beside them.

“Hey there, little cheater,” said Hiccup, without a hint of reproach. He even reached back to scratch the small Terror. “Aren’t you the smart one.”

Sharpshot squawked proudly, sheltered from the wind by the human’s back. He ignored the Toothless’ low growls.

While Toothless was glad to see that Hiccup was given the appropriate amount of attention, he was still irritated for being completely disregarded by the impudent, bird-sized dragon. Wasn’t _he_ the mighty Night Fury? Perhaps Sharpshot was confused as to who was the superior animal, since Hiccup carried a good deal of Toothless’ scent. Terrible Terrors, though much smarter than any bird, were not particularly bright dragons, so it was a possibility.

No, there was no way Sharpshot could still be confused after so much time together. He knew Toothless was too civilized to attack him, either physically or with his more powerful mind, and he was taking advantage of the situation. He was doing it on purpose. This meant the hostilities were now formally open for the day.

As a first act of retaliation, Toothless decided to go for an abrupt barrel-roll. Hiccup and the little dragon were both caught unawares, but only the little dragon was thrown off the Night Fury’s back. Sharpshot tried to catch up again, but Toothless had no intention of slowing down; not for that puny creature who was competing for his rider’s affections.

Toothless knew he was being blatantly jealous. Yet, he could not help it. He did not simply _like_ having Hiccup by his side, he did not just crave his attention, he _needed_ him. He was not going to let an less ancient dragon get more scratches than himself!

Yes, he was being petty, but he refused to care. Hiccup was _his_ alone, and, although his rider had never given the slightest impression of forgetting about him, Toothless’ possessiveness and apprehension burned as hot as his own blue fire. That was why he finally determined it was time to show off his true speed. Hiccup did not seem to mind. In fact, the boy had openly joined in with the Toothless’s addiction to reckless flying, and they both darted ahead faster than the wind.

Despite his rivalry with the little beast, Toothless did not truly dislike Sharpshot, or any of the others for that matter. He had never had any inherent animosity with the common, less ancient species.

In the past, before being enslaved by the queen, he had sometimes enjoyed their attentions, and their occasional reverence. When he had come of age, he had even mated with quite a few eager females of different kinds, who would often seek him out. After all, crossbreeding was quite common among dragons of comparable sizes, and Toothless had never courted another Night Fury, since chances of doing that were incredibly slim, to say the least of it. That was why dragons like him would need to appease their summer heat in the occasional company of some fierce Monstrous Nightmare, or an attractive Timberjack, or perhaps an elegant Deadly Nadder, whom Toothless favored particularly.

He could not procreate in this way, though, for his seed lacked the power to quicken hybrid eggs, unlike a few other dragons. However, the diverse females who would often approach and pursue him, did so not just for his mating prowess (with which he was certain to be indisputably gifted), but also to acquire his unusual, noble scent, and thus to have better chances of appealing to the strongest males within their own kind.

It was a rather fitting arrangement for the Night Furies, who were so rare, so nomadic, and so solitary, that chances of two of the opposite sex ever meeting (and actually mating) were one or two in a lifetime. That’s part of what made them so rare in the first place.

Of course, the Night Furies’ rarity was not the only exceptional thing about them. Their most unique trait was actually their incredible speed, which was the reason why none of the contenders of today’s race was surprised when Hiccup and Toothless landed first by their camp, raising a huge cloud of sand, along with the human’s cheerful remark of: “Nice flying, bud’!”

This had become their playful routine for the previous couple of mornings, and they happily reenacted it every day, all throughout the current moon-cycle, which humans named July.

* * *

It was the beginning of the month called August, when Hiccup decided to visit the island of Thargran for the first time. He had been hesitant to go to the new village after what had happened in Balheim, although he was nowhere near as preoccupied as Toothless.

Still, the boy had claimed that, to begin building his shelter, he was going to require a few more crucial tools and supplies. He promised to be extra careful.

As a result, Toothless ended up waiting again, curled around a pine-tree, deep into the forests of Thargran. He was restless, and since he did not wish to move from his spot, anxious for Hiccup’s return, he tried to distract himself by studying his rider’s bow-weapon with growing fascination.

Hiccup had already shown Toothless how it worked while practicing. He had used first large, then thinner and thinner tree-trunks as targets; some of the arrows had broken because of it, but he still had plenty more in his stolen quiver. In fact, that was the reason why he had brought the bow and quiver along today. Hiccup was planning to sell some of the extra arrows, so he wouldn’t have to spend all of his precious silver scales… or ‘coins’. Besides, after what had happened in Balheim, he was definitely not planning to find steady work, lest Spitelout and his goons decided to suddenly pay them an unpleasant visit again. It was still summer, and the sea was still too easy to sail, Hiccup had reasoned. Plus, the Archipelago was swarming with a far larger traffic of boats than the boy had ever thought probable.

 _‘I think the less time I spend in crowded areas, the better for all of us,’_ Hiccup had said. Toothless had never agreed more with anyone in his life.

Before making his way towards the village, Hiccup had chosen to actually leave the bow behind with Toothless, and bring only the valuable quiver along. He feared that roaming the village armed could have attracted some unnecessary attention, and he preferred to give the most forgettable impression possible. Hiccup was becoming increasingly cautious, much to the Toothless’s relief.

Speaking of unnecessary attention, Hiccup had also had a hard time convincing their other dragon-friends _not_ to follow them to Thargran that morning, since approaching a human village would have been far too conspicuous, if accompanied by a small but colorful flock of dragons.

Toothless did not mind being alone from the others. Their cheerful company would not have been enough consolation to distract him from his rider’s absence anyway, especially after what had happened during their latest trip to a human settlement. That was why Toothless kept all of his ear-plates raised constantly in attention, and his nostrils flaring.

The sun had barely dawned, and Toothless was already beginning to miss Hiccup’s scent, even more than he missed the boy’s the reassuring presence of his voice. The little human smelled a bit like fresh wildlife, but it wasn’t the same mouthwatering aroma of food; it was a pungently sweet smell, like that of strong, spicy flowers, and pine-sap, grass, and a bit of dirt, and salty sweat, a typically human trait. He also carried the ever increasing musk of a male, though he still looked too much like a hatchling in Toothless’ eyes.

 _Is Hiccup of mating age?_ Toothless would sometimes wonder. He knew next to nothing about Human growth.

There was also something else, something that Toothless could only describe as a ‘Hiccup-scent’. Something indescribably specific, and amazingly familiar. It was still too early for him to understand this, but that was the very smell which some creatures associated with their own home, though Toothless, as a Night Fury, had no clear understanding of such a foreign concept.

Toothless felt his shoulders unintentionally relax, even before he fully realized he had sniffed his rider approaching. Moments later, he heard soft steps, and finally the boy’s tired but calm breathing.

“Here I am! All safe and sound. Been worried about me?” Hiccup asked merrily, though his voice hid a tiny amount of concern.

Toothless huffed, feigning nonchalance. _“Don’t mock me you little hatchling; I’ll bite your bony rump,”_ he snapped, mostly to himself, since Hiccup could not hear him. He knew, however, that he somewhat deserved to be mocked, considering how many times he had overreacted. He felt a bit embarrassed about it, but never repentant; deep inside, he was still a proud Night Fury.

“I think I’ve bought most of the necessary stuff,” Hiccup said, laying down a half-closed bundle of grey cloth. It made a clunking noise, before he untied it to reveal the contents. “I probably need more things, but I’ll try to make do. I’ll certainly need the money to buy more flour, before the colder months. Maybe honey, and some dried meat, _if_ I can afford it, or I might try to cure it myself. Thank Thor I had the arrows. Selling half of those allowed me to keep five of my silver coins, and two coppers. Let’s just hope it’s enough for the whole winter.”

“So… We have one small hammer,” Hiccup lifted it for Toothless to see, “a saw,” he did the same with the large serrated object, which Toothless did not like, “a bunch of nails, _aaand…_ lots of rope.” He pointed to the only purchase that did not fit inside the bundle. “Most else I should have already.”

“By the way,” he went on, producing a thick yellow lump from his pockets, “I also bought some beeswax for your saddle and fin, so the leather doesn’t go bad.” He let Toothless smell it, before putting it back.

“Did I forget anything?”

Toothless looked at him with a deadpan stare.

“I don’t know. Maybe you had some _dragon-_ suggestions,” Hiccup replied, bobbing his shoulders. He then tied everything to the saddle with meticulous care.

As soon as the boy was done, there was a sudden rustling noise, not too far away. Toothless turned to look, alerting his rider as he did so.

“What is it, bud’?”

Toothless hissed lowly to hush the boy. He then saw it, and Hiccup did too a moment later. It had not noticed them yet. They were lucky.

“It’s a deer!” Hiccup whispered, suppressing the awe from his voice. The creature had large intricate antlers sprouting elegantly from its head. “I’ve never seen one so big; not alive at least. It’s beautiful!”

Toothless did not disagree. Deer were beautiful animals indeed, and very, very tasty. He beckoned Hiccup with his snout towards the new bow. It was time for his rider to try the weapon out on something other than rabbits and trees.

“What?” Hiccup muttered. “Oh, no. No no. I can’t _kill_ it!” He hissed. “I mean, look at it!”

Toothless licked his lips and widened his eyes expectantly. _“Deer is yummy.”_

“Absolutely not.” Hiccup kept whispering. “I can’t kill an actual _stag!_ What if it looks at me? What if I just hit it in the leg, and it escapes, only to die in agony somewh-”

Toothless cut him off with a puff of smoke, rolling his eyes with mounting exasperation, making his intentions as clear as possible.

 _“I want to eat some deer. So, if you don’t kill it, I will,”_ he said, though his words were both useless and unnecessary; Hiccup had already understood.

The young Viking took a deep, resigned breath, then let it out slowly, before picking up his bow and pulling out one arrow. “Fine,” he whispered as he positioned himself, making very little noise. The expression on his face changed. If he was hesitating, he did not show it, but Toothless could almost hear the boy’s heart beating heavily beside him.

“If I miss, we let it go,” Hiccup said under his breath.

His rider’s tone caught Toothless by surprise. It was uncommonly absolute. It made him suspect that, if he was to disobey, Hiccup would not easily forgive him. Of course, Toothless had already dismissed the command in his mind. He was not going to obey. He was a Night Fury, and before him was a deer, and deer was food. Hiccup _had_ to learn this.

Yet, the situation left him puzzled. Was this human’s aversion to killing _that_ intense? Toothless was not sure if to complain, as it was this very aversion that had spared his life. But killing was still necessary. Killing was living. He did not regret pushing Hiccup to do it. Hiccup _had_ to be able to kill, if only for self defense, especially considering the times when Toothless could not be by the boy’s side.

In the span of one breath, with a single, slow, fluid movement, Hiccup nocked the arrow, aimed, and shot. The deer turned immediately to the sound.

The bowstring was still ringing mutely, when the briefest squeal of pain reached their ears. Then, a thump. Hiccup gasped, as if in pain himself, as if the arrow had somehow pierced his own foot.

The arrow had sunk deep in the stag’s skull through its very eye-socket. The animal had died instantly. It had been such an impossibly precise shot, that even Toothless stood frozen in disbelief for a moment, before he even contemplated to celebrate. Sure, his rider had been rather good during practice, even by Night Fury standards, and he had improved a lot with time, but this had obviously been a fluke.

 _“You did it!”_ Toothless finally said with a cheerful trill.

Hiccup ignored him. The boy looked more disappointed than proud, as should have instead been appropriate after such an unbelievable shot. He hesitantly approached his kill, and kneeled beside it. Toothless followed; the strong smell of wild animal made his mouth water.

“At least he didn’t suffer, right?” Hiccup said, his tone almost that of a plea. He seemed to be asking for confirmation, as his hands brushed the deer’s short, bristly fur. He then looked at Toothless. That’s when Toothless noticed Hiccup’s face had taken an unsettlingly pale, almost greenish hue. He crooned with worry, nudging his rider’s cheek with his snout.

“I’m fine, bud’,” Hiccup sighed. “It feels weird. Good, and bad at the same time.” He sighed a second time. “I hit it on the first try. A headshot too! Gobber would be really proud, and maybe even my dad.” He paused, then forced a smile. “I guess Odin aimed for me today.”

Toothless had not the slightest idea of what Hiccup meant with by that. He just stared at his rider.

“I guess I should be thanking him. I don’t think I could stomach the chase of a dying, bleeding deer across the island, knowing my arrow is stuck in its throat.” Hiccup stared at his hands. “I thought I left Berk so I wouldn’t have to do this kind of thing. I guess I never thought this through.”

He emitted a forlorn chuckle, before sighing a third time. Or was he about to throw up?

“Man. I was so unprepared when I decided to leave. What was I _thinking_?” He asked, expecting no answer. “It seems so long ago now.”

Hiccup turned to face Toothless. Some color was coming back to the boy’s face.

“Don’t worry, bud’. I don’t regret leaving. I’m glad we did,” he said reassuringly, reaching out to scratch Toothless’ chin.

Hiccup breathed again and closed his eyes. Then, wincing abundantly, he tried to recover the arrow, but, stuck in the deer’s skull as it was, he ended up breaking it. He then made a cut across the animal’s neck so it would bleed out on their way home. Even so, this deer was truly heavy, and, coupled with the bunch of new objects Hiccup had purchased in Thargran, it made their flight back unusually tiresome for Toothless, and his wings ached when they finally reached their camp.

The other dragons welcomed them jauntily, and all but Dreyri approached Hiccup’s kill with watering mouths. Toothless tensed, emitted a warning signal, and they quickly backed off with different degrees of pouting.

_This deer is Hiccup’s only._

Hiccup, however, had different plans. “Consider this payment for everything you’ve caught for me so far. It’s all yours.”

Toothless would have none of that, so he complained, but Hiccup insisted, and thus the two ended up bickering, until the sun was high in the sky. All the while, the other dragons observed their heated exchange, waiting for an appropriate distraction, which would allow them to snatch the deer away for themselves. Toothless kept a constant eye on them, though; he was not nearly careless enough.

In the end, Hiccup had settled for a piece of the hind leg. Toothless had the rest of the meat, and the other dragons seemed perfectly satisfied with a taste of the innards. Hiccup’s greenish color returned with a vengeance as soon as he saw them ravage the stag’s organs.

They all feasted gratefully on the rare animal. Toothless could not avoid frowning with disapproval as his rider ruined his share of meat upon a fire. As soon as the boy had eaten as well, the sun began to cast short shadows upon the sand.

While the dragons rested, Hiccup spent the afternoon consulting his notes, laying down his tools orderly upon a rock, and finding a good flat patch of ground for his shelter, somewhere close to the border between the forest and the beach. (He wanted to be relatively hidden, but still able to watch the sea for upcoming ships, as he had explained.) He also began to cut down small saplings, then asked for Toothless’ help to carry some heavier tree-trunks to specific locations.

The boy was surprisingly methodical in his work, and Toothless studied him with a bored kind of fascination. He had nothing else to do, whereas Hiccup appeared to be so very committed. He could almost see the boy’s thoughts and schemes churning in that human brain of his.

Before long, Toothless decided to mess with the industrious hatchling. The reason why this felt like such an irresistible opportunity, eluded him completely. Nonetheless, he got up, grabbed Hiccup’s hatchet, and hid it behind a tree.

Hiccup didn’t notice, so Toothless went for the saw, and did the same. Nothing. Hiccup was too focused on other matters. Toothless picked up the hammer then, and held it between his gums. He waited for Hiccup to look at him. The boy finally did.

“What…” Hiccup began, then he looked at his tools. Three were missing. His face went from surprised, to emotionless, to frowning. “Where are my tools?” He asked, his tone halfway between grave and curious.

Toothless grinned widely, just like he had learnt from the human, displaying the hammer between his gums.

“Give it back,” Hiccup said cautiously, reaching out with one hand. “Where are the other tools?” He asked, though it didn’t sound like a question at all. He took a step forward. “Come on, bud’. I’m working.” He took another step.

Toothless backed away, then began to leisurely trot along the beach, looking back at his rider.

“ _No._ Give it back,” Hiccup ordered, forcing a scowl.

Toothless hopped further away.

“Hey! Come back here!” Hiccup half shouted, half pleaded. He then started chasing after him, and Toothless ran even faster. The boy tried to keep up, his bare feet spraying sand behind him. The sand showered Twitch, who had begun chasing Hiccup in turn, squawking merrily, not wishing to be left out of such an entertaining commotion. Some of the others merely dozed by the crashing waves, unconcerned. Sharpshot had probably found entertainment elsewhere, or he would have joined immediately.

The three of them ran until they reached the other end of the shore. Hiccup was panting, Toothless was smiling, and Twitch looked confused. The little dragon used his long tongue to wipe sand off his large eyeballs.

“Come on, end of the line.” Hiccup said through a playful smirk. “Give it back now- Oh no…”

Toothless was not done. He slowly spread his wings, and jumped above the human and the little Terror, to land right behind them.

“Oh, come on!” Hiccup complained. “Jumping isn’t fair!”

Toothless showed he didn’t much care for rules. He did so by turning around, lifting his tail, and swinging his raised, exposed rump towards the boy, flaunting his bottom in a disrespectful manner.

“Don’t you wiggle your butt at me!” Hiccup yelled, raising a condemning finger. When Toothless did not stop, Hiccup pursed his mouth to form a determined scowl, and crouched lower, ready to sprint. “Fine! Now you’ve done it!” He grunted, as if offended, and the chase resumed, all the way back to their camp again. Toothless was still faster, but Twitch decided he did not enjoy being sprayed with sand, so he simply flew on his way back.

Toothless thought he had had enough. Once they reached the small clearing that Hiccup had found appropriately flat for building his shelter, only a few trees inland, he allowed Hiccup to tackle him to the ground. Toothless fell on his back, with Hiccup laying triumphantly upon his belly.

“Gotcha!” The boy shouted, his voice covering a sudden crackling noise below them. “Did you hear that?”

A second, louder splintering of wood exploded right beneath Toothless, and both he and his rider found themselves falling into a pit, letting out two very short, startled yelps.

Actually, it was not deep enough to be called a pit. It was more like a shallow hole. They were both unhurt. In fact, Toothless could barely fit inside, and Hiccup’s head was still above ground level. However, Toothless could feel something else under him, so, after he made sure Hiccup was safe again by the edge, he got up and turned around, shaking off the chips of broken wood that used to comprise a trap-door, which had been concealed with layers of earth and sand. That explained why that spot was so unnaturally flat.

“What’s _this?_ ” Hiccup exclaimed.

Toothless peered into the shallow hole. There, in the middle, lay a large, wooden crate, with a nailed lid, which had now caved in because of his fall. The crate had handles made of thick rope on each side.

“No way! Buried treasure?” Hiccup said excitedly. “Let’s open it! But we’ve got to take it out of there. Help me out.”

Toothless nodded.

The crate appeared to be very heavy, and it didn’t seem easy to pull out. They could not simply drag it out, since there was no slope. Short of breaking it apart, Toothless was not sure how to do it. His paws could not very well grab those tiny handles.

Hiccup, however, seemed untroubled by the challenge. He tied part of his new rope to one of the handles of the crate, then tied another to the opposite handle. One end of the first rope he gave to Toothless to bite on. The other rope he passed around the trunk of a tree, located on the other side of the hole from Toothless, before he gave him one end of that second rope too. Hiccup held the two ropes together as well, standing between him and the hole.

“Alright, now pull.”

Toothless bit down hard, and they both pulled. The crate rose vertically.

“Now, move that way,” Hiccup said as they pivoted around the tree, until the crate had solid ground below it. They let go.

“Great. Now… where did you put my hatchet?” Hiccup asked, raising his eyebrows expectantly, both hands placed sternly at his hips.

Toothless pouted, flaring his nostrils, but still retrieved both the hidden hatchet and the saw, leaving them drenched with saliva before his rider’s feet.

“ _Thanks_ ,” Hiccup said with narrow eyes. Sighing, he picked up the hatchet, wiped it upon his tunic, and approached the crate.

“This is the Berserker’s crest,” he said, indicating towards a dragon-shaped drawing. The design was vaguely reminiscent of the rare lightning-dragon. Surprise and perplexity wrinkled the boy’s forehead. “What’s it doing this far south? Why would they even leave treasure _here?_ ” Hiccup asked, before prying the crate open with his hatchet.

The answer to his question was simple. It was not treasure at all. Not to a normal Viking at least. But, to Hiccup, it might as well have been the greatest treasure in the world.

The crate contained emergency supplies, which, according to Hiccup’s reasoning, had been hidden there in case some stranded Berserker sailor was in need.

Toothless listened as his rider listed all of the contents with ever-increasing joy: thick canvas, either for replacing sails or making a tent, more rope, two short seaxes (sadly eaten by rust), and one small axe, which had also seen better days. Then, another heavy pelt, blankets, a pot, wooden bowls and spoons, and a knife. And, finally, some woolen cloth and linen thread, needles and fishing hooks, bandages and even gut-line for stitching wounds.

“Look at all this stuff! I can use this for… and this one... I can sell this and…” Hiccup trailed off, overwhelmed by all the possibilities. “This changes everything!” He cheered, and Toothless smiled with him. It was rare to see his rider so ecstatic whilst on the ground.

“Thor almighty!” Hiccup finally exclaimed. “Maybe the gods don’t hate me after all!”


	16. A Profound Link

**(Toothless)**

 

Something was off. It was dark, even for a Night Fury’s legendary eyesight. Was he in a cave? Toothless could not remember how he got there. They had gone to sleep in the caves because of the rain. Yes, he remembered that part. However, this cave was different: bigger, darker, and somehow filled with sorrow.

He tried to look around, but couldn’t. He did not panic though; it felt normal. Besides, he wasn’t chained, yet he had the impression (in fact, it was almost a certainty) that he was back inside Berk’s prisons. Although, this cave was not at all like the one in which he had been confined; that much he knew for sure. He could not actually make out the details, but he could tell.

What was he doing here? It didn’t make any sense, and, at the same time, it was all as clear as a bad memory. The absurdity of the situation was the only thing that kept him from losing his nerve.

There was a noise. He did not hear it with his ears, but it had been there. Then, though he could not produce any discernible sound, he growled with anger.

The girl, Astrid, was standing before him, her arms folded under her chest. Needless to say, Toothless hated her. She had caused them so much trouble, and, worst of all, Hiccup seemed unwilling to blame her for what she had done. The boy much more often blamed himself, which was all the more reason for Toothless to loathe her very existence.

“I’m sorry, alright?” The girl said.

Toothless did not care. _I won’t spare her this time!_ He thought. _I don’t care if Hiccup likes her; his pain was her fault!_

He growled harder, but again, no sound came out.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. At the same time, just like she had back then, the day she had fled from the cove to report them, she unbuckled her shoulder-guards, and removed her armored skirt.

Part of Toothless thought: _Even better. Easier to chew on._ Although, another part of his mind was asking: _Why is she removing her armor? She doesn’t need to run._

“I am so, so sorry,” the girl repeated as she entered the cage, slowly breaking the lock with the sheer strength of her suspiciously lean arms. For some inscrutable reason, it seemed very plausible.

Toothless could not remember the iron bars, but they had been there all this time. He knew that too now, as if he had known all along.

She came closer to him. The girl began to remove even more of her garbs, until her pale skin was completely bare. Toothless could not see her naked body clearly, but somehow he was very much aware of it. She then came even closer, crawling on her knees, sinuously as a stalking cat, or an unstoppable, rogue wave.

“Please don’t be mad. I really am sorry.” She was whispering into his ear now, her voice a low moan. “Let me show you, _Hiccup._ ”

_Is she talking to Hiccup?_ Toothless wondered. _Is he here too?_ He tried to look around. Again, he couldn’t.

Finally, the girl reached out towards him, and there was nothing Toothless could do about it. He wanted to bite her hands off, to run his claws across her face, but he was unable to move, as if the body he inhabited was not his to command.

Then, something began to change around him. The cave was still the same, still big, still dark, but, suddenly, it was sorrowful no longer. Soon, however, Toothless’ irritation at his inability to claw Astrid to shreds reached the limit, and his own wrath and confusion finally jostled him out of the dream.

Toothless lay awake, his eyelids peeled back just enough to confirm his actual location. He was once again in a cave, but this one he remembered quite well. It was morning, and the rain was still falling lazily outside, making constant trickling noises as it flowed down the volcanic rocks. The air was tepid and moist, which made its infusion with the scents of minerals, and grass, and wet dirt even more intense. Hiccup was still asleep beneath his wing, despite the fact that, beyond the grey clouds, the sun was high already.

Due to the constant downpour, they had looked for shelter inland, inside one of the small, cramped caves by the feet of the mountain. The other dragons had not joined them. They obviously preferred sleeping on the much more comfortable floor of the forest, by the northern shore. Hiccup had promised Toothless he would not need those hard caves anymore just as soon as his house was ready, but it required a lot more work before it was finished, and, for now, they would have to stay there, trapped in that mountain until it was dry enough again to resume construction.

Toothless found it strange that he had awoken earlier than his rider. He remembered having some bizarre dream before waking, although he couldn’t recall the details. All he knew was that he had awoken with the taste of anger in his mouth. He finally checked under his wing, trying not to stir the boy too much.

Hiccup was sleeping on his side, with the Toothless’ paw supporting his head, just like usual. His lips were slightly parted, and his mouth produced the most delicate whispers when he exhaled. At a closer inspection, the little human’s breathing was rather fast, not irregular though. His face looked somewhat flushed, but not sickly. Overall, Hiccup appeared strangely restless. Was he having a bad dream too?

Toothless considered waking him, but decided against it. His rider was mumbling something in his sleep, ever so softly, and he didn’t want to interrupt. There was barely a sound at all, but he was a Night Fury; his hearing was as sharp as a Nightmare’s claws.

“… sst… sst…”

_What is he trying to say?_

Before Toothless could lean in to listen again, the boy tensed, and a pained frown furrowed his brow. A few heartbeats later, he seemed to relax, and, before long, his eyes were opening as well.

Hiccup blinked a few times at the light. For a moment, he looked unsure as to where he was. Toothless stared questioningly at his waking friend. Was he all right? He was unusually ruddy, the thinnest layer of sweat glazed his forehead, but he was clearly not having a fever, unlike a few months before. He looked particularly healthy this time, more than ever actually.

Hiccup got slowly on his feet. He began to stretch, though there was still some confusion lingering in his eyes, and perhaps some... was it disappointment?

Suddenly, Toothless understood what had just occurred to the little human. He would have never realized this, had it not been for his incredibly keen sense of smell. Before Toothless could confirm his suspicion, Hiccup realized what had happened to him as well. He yelped, checking the cause of his discomfort with actions that are better left undescribed for the sake of the young boy’s dignity.

“What the…! Oh _man…_ ” Hiccup mumbled worriedly. Then, he turned to look at him. In that instant, Toothless could see Hiccup’s face turn red as Dreyri’s crimson scales; his ears in particular seemed to glow bright like hot coals.

Toothless tilted his head curiously. While he found this rather funny, he tried his best not to laugh for his rider’s sake, at least not before he could see what Hiccup’s reaction was going to be. Unfortunately, the Toothless did not manage to control his eyes, which scanned Hiccup’s body knowingly, giving away the fact that he too had understood what had happened. It had been just a fleeting glance, but it was enough to make Hiccup’s cheeks, if possible, even redder.

Laughter kept bubbling in his throat, but Toothless forced himself to suppress it.

“ _Berightback!_ ” Hiccup exclaimed with sudden alarm, bolting out of the cave, under the waning rain, as if his head had truly been on fire. Before he was outside though, he turned around. “I really have to… I need to stop drinking so much water… before sleep.” He gave an uncomfortable chuckle, suddenly pretending like nothing unusual had occurred, all the while failing at giving an impression of calm nonchalance, his hands nervously trying to hide the discomfort beneath his clothes with movements that looked anything but casual. “So I’m just going to… you know… I’ll just go.” He hastily took some effects from his basket, and ran outside.

“Don’t follow me!” Hiccup added with a hurried shout once he was out of sight. Toothless decided that staying put was likely the proper thing to do. So, he waited.

Although Hiccup’s reaction had been fairly amusing (perhaps even more than the accident itself), Toothless could not help feeling sorry for his little friend.

The first reason was that, while Toothless was not at all knowledgeable about human behavior on these matters, it was clear that mating season had started for his young human as well, just like it had for most dragons; in that, they were apparently more similar than he had previously thought. It was full-blown summer after all.

Sadly, both he and his rider were on an island without any suitable mates, and unless they went to look for some, accidents like that were probably bound to happen. In fact, Toothless was beginning to consider asking his rider for a trip to some nesting grounds, which he suspected were not too far away, before similar accidents occurred to him as well. And Toothless knew he could not avoid them for much longer, since he was refraining from any physical activity of self-gratification, which, somehow, he was sure Hiccup was not going to appreciate witnessing, considering how far the boy would regularly delve into the forest to satisfy his own needs, unaware perhaps that, like today, there was no hiding such things from a dragon’s sense of smell.

Perhaps, Toothless thought, he too could be secretive about it, but even so, he was not the kind of dragon to resort to such things. He was a Night Fury. He was going to find mates easily on any nesting island, if only he could find a way to convince Hiccup to fly there.

The second reason why Toothless felt sorry for Hiccup was that the boy seemed to have taken the episode rather badly. Toothless had begun to decipher the violent reddening of a human’s face as an expression of shame, despite the fact that shame or modesty were completely foreign concepts to any dragon. This was even truer for Night Furies, probably the proudest creatures in the sky.

Thus, according to Toothless, Hiccup ought not have felt _that_ badly for something so trivial. Yet, after the boy returned (a somewhat long while later), there was very little Toothless could do to cheer him up.

Although much less than before, Hiccup was still awkward. He seemed shaken. Toothless tried cooing softly at him, but the boy merely glanced back with a polite smile of acknowledgment. He had chosen to spend the rest of the morning scribbling absently on his journal by the cave’s entrance, all the while purposefully avoiding Toothless’ eyes.

Hiccup had many project designs in that bundle of parchment, one of which he had defined as _‘the most complicated thing I’ve ever thought of_ ,’ and, most importantly, _‘a surprise’_ , to which he had added: _‘I can’t show you what it is until I’m sure I can make it’_. Hence, he had never allowed Toothless to stay too close whenever he was working on it, and that’s what he was working on now, apparently.

This let Hiccup keep some distance from Toothless, who would otherwise peek at the journal’s pages. It was a good excuse, since the young human was clearly trying to distract himself, today more than usual, though it was actually not an uncommon behavior lately.

In the previous few weeks, beside their customary morning flight, Hiccup had spent the remaining daylight working restlessly on building his shelter. Sometimes, he worked without pause, until he was completely exhausted. There were days (those when he looked gloomier than usual) that Hiccup worked himself to sleep, as if fearing to stop. Toothless had the growing suspicion that his rider was afraid to rest, and risk being visited by thoughts of his home. Part of his mind was still there, more often than either of them would have liked.

At times, Toothless would also catch Hiccup mumbling to himself, perhaps inadvertently, about some previous complaint, about things and people that used be part of his daily life, and now were there no more. The boy’s past still populated the one-sided debates he often muttered to himself under his breath, between gathering stones and chopping wood. Then again, it might have been a good thing that Hiccup’s tribulations seemed to lay solely in the past. It meant that the sooner he forgot, the sooner he could begin to fully enjoy his present. At least, that’s what Toothless hoped.

So, Toothless waited patiently, giving his friend some space, while he listlessly contemplated the cave’s damp, iridescent ceiling, trying to identify the stalactite with the fastest-falling droplet of water.

In that moment, details of his latest dream began to slowly reemerge, and, as he thought about it, he realized that, given what had happened, the very same dream made much more sense if Hiccup had been the one having it. Though it pained Toothless to acknowledge it, his rider had often admitted to liking Astrid as a female.

Could it be that he had seen Hiccup’s dream? He wondered. Had he somehow managed to access Hiccup’s sleeping mind, without even noticing? Toothless had never even known this to be possible, though it was not entirely inconceivable to a dragon. In any case, if true, it was a very promising sign. Their minds were growing closer. While awake, Hiccup’s natural block was too strong, but perhaps… perhaps the latent faculty was truly there. Perhaps it was worth a shot.

Around midday, Toothless decided he had waited enough. He stood up, and assumed his usual playful stance, before approaching his friend, disregarding his request for secrecy.

“Alright, fine,” Hiccup agreed, turning a few pages. His voice had lost all the previous unease, much to Toothless’ relief, and was replaced with mock annoyance. “I’ll do something else so you can watch too, you nosy beast. How about I start writing my own dragon manual, eh? And _you_ can be on the front page,” he proposed teasingly, but he then lifted his head with surprise. “That’s... actually not a bad idea,” he added under his breath.

“Part one: The Night Fury,” Hiccup recited, writing down the runes on a fresh page. He paused, and then began to scribble, without actually touching his charcoal on the parchment, though Toothless did not notice this at first.

“Night Furies are very silly dragons, and their threat is often overestimated. In fact, Night Furies are probably the least dangerous dragons you’ll ever meet.”

Filled with sudden self-importance, Toothless listened intently at the description, but as soon as he realized that the boy was taunting him, he narrowed his eyes with faux spite and offense.

“They might be dark,” Hiccup continued, nodding seriously, “but they are very cute, and harmless, and entirely lovable.”

Toothless began to growl.

Hiccup gave him a mischievous look. “Not. Dangerous. At. All.” He spoke each word clearly, while his hand pretended to write. “The worst they can do is cover you with fishy spit…” He gave another look, but, this time, it carried the slightest hint of preoccupation. “They are also a bit... ugly.”

_“UGLY?!”_ Toothless snarled at that. This was it. This affront granted swift retaliation. He clasped Hiccup’s writing arm between his gums, making the boy drop journal and charcoal both.

“Aaah! Sorry! I’m sorry!” Hiccup howled as he was dragged out of the cave by his arm. Once on the soft ground outside, Toothless pawed Hiccup playfully, with his claws fully retracted, as the boy apologized for his mighty offense.

“Alright! I yield! I’m sorry!” Hiccup laughed. “You’re very dangerous! Very, very dangerous!” When Toothless didn’t stop, he added: “And beautiful! Very beautiful! Like... like a tree in spring!”

Toothless paused to consider it, then resumed.

“Alright!” Hiccup shrieked, trying to defend himself. “ _Not_ like a tree! Like… Like the the sea! Yes! Powerful and charming... like the sea!”

Toothless liked that better, nodded, and, finally, he dropped the act.

Both lay sprawled on the cool, slippery grass of the small glade. Only then they noticed that the rain had stopped, and rays of warm summer sunlight had begun to break through the exhausted clouds, making the wet vegetation glisten brightly green.

Toothless lay with his head upon Hiccup’s chest, effectively pinning the boy to the earth. He could feel his friend’s tiny heartbeat under his jaw, while Hiccup stared contentedly into his eyes, without speaking. The human’s fingers drew carefree circles around the his nostrils.

Toothless stared back at his rider, neither averting their gaze from one another, when he noticed something. What he noticed, he couldn’t explain right away. It felt like someone else was there between them, but he was too small to see. He could feel this tiny new presence only whilst losing himself in Hiccup’s green irises.

Realization dawned on him like a flash of lightning. He almost jumped in surprise.

It was Hiccup! Specifically, it was Hiccup’s inner sense! It _was_ there; he could feel it now, but it was as if buried, small, and entirely different from a Night Fury’s. In fact, it was unlike that of any other dragon, or feral beast. It had a different nature, but it seemed already capable of vibrating in some odd way, or perhaps just under very strange conditions.

_Maybe like having a fever, or during dreams,_ Toothless thought.

And yet, it seemed potentially more flexible than that, despite being incredibly hard to perceive. Humans were indeed strange, but maybe not too much.

This confirmed Toothless’ month-long suspicion. Humans did have an inner sense, which implied an inner ear and most likely an inner voice too! Toothless had never felt more relieved, excited, worried, and afraid in his entire life. Such conflicting emotions stemmed from the now fierce desire to finally open his rider’s mind to the real world of dragon existence. He could not wait. He _would_ not wait. Now that he knew where to look, he knew what he had to do.

It was probably going to be hard, but he was a Night Fury, one of the rarest, most ancient dragons in the world. While not nearly as powerful as the queen’s, his mind was still sharp and strong, and he’d try his best to be careful. If it were any other human, this would have been impossible, but Hiccup’s mind was so strangely accepting of Toothless, that it was bound to work, wasn’t it?

This actually showed how openly devoted Hiccup was to him; it made Toothless feel both flattered and heartbroken at the same time. Only a dragon would have been able to understand what this kind of profound devotion truly meant. To expose one’s mind this way, it was like leaving oneself completely vulnerable to someone else’s will. A dangerous thing for any dragon. In fact, it was the highest form of unconditional trust any creature with a functioning inner sense would have ever been able to offer, and, on top of that, Hiccup was doing it spontaneously, without even realizing it. Even the proud Toothless couldn’t help feeling that such kind of fondness was more than a broken Night Fury like himself deserved.

Therefore, if he was to make a mistake, damaging Hiccup’s so openly devoted mind, Toothless would have never been able to forgive himself. Not only because it would have been the same as inducing his own demise (though it was certainly an undesirable consequence), but because it would have been a brutal breach of this little human’s trust, which, to his surprise, felt even more important.

He could not afford to slip-up. He was going to be extremely slow and careful, so that, in the worst case, nothing would change.

_I can do this._

“What’s wrong, bud’?” Hiccup suddenly asked, stirring Toothless from his intense reverie. Toothless noticed he had been standing still as a mountain, whilst fighting down his hesitation.

_I can do this._

He rose, allowing Hiccup to sit up and lean his back on the fallen trunk of a nearby tree. Birds chirped inside the forest behind the boy, and, for a moment, Toothless hoped he was doing the right thing. He returned to stare at his little human.

Hiccup was now shadowed by the tree-line, whereas Toothless stood under the sunlight, close to the boy’s feet. One yellow ray of light pierced through the foliage, and shone on Hiccup’s smooth hair, revealing its true reddish color.

_He is so small,_ Toothless observed, _but humans have very big brains, right?_

“Toothless, are you alright?” Hiccup insisted, his brows curved with worry. “You look… weird.”

Toothless nodded. He licked just the tip of the boy’s chin, to wipe the worried look from his face. Then, he began to peer into Hiccup’s mind, just as he had a few times before, fruitlessly. Yet, this time, he knew exactly how to control his inner voice. It was almost like trying to push a heavy rock off a cliff. Whilst once it had felt like trying to break the entire cliff, now he could see exactly which rock he had to push.

“Are you sur- What are… _Toothless?_ ” Hiccup began to show some signs of discomfort, but Toothless did not relent. He stared deep, deep into the boy’s eyes, so as not to lose his concentration. All the while, he tried to speak his rider’s name, over and over again.

_“Hiccup?”_

Not yet. He needed to push further.

_“Hiccup!”_

The boy’s face turned from confused, to disturbed, to outright frightened. Toothless knew his own expression was one of strenuous focus. His teeth had unsheathed from the effort, and his pupils were threateningly narrow. He was hissing, but he could not stop it. He could not let go just yet; it felt like he was almost there.

“What- are you- doing?” Hiccup muttered, raising a hesitant hand to pat Toothless’ snout in an attempt to calm him down. He changed the hand’s course though, and touched his own temple instead, squinting with pain. He was pressing his back harder on the trunk of the tree, trying to distance himself, but he appeared unable to move.

_“Can you hear my voice?”_ Toothless kept repeating.

Seeing Hiccup with such pain in his eyes soon became unbearable. Toothless could not afford to continue, and risk irreversible damage to his rider’s health. He decided it was time to desist, and abandon his hope that the little human would one day be capable of understanding him.

He would never be able to bear doing this again; he knew. The mere notion that he had tried to violate Hiccup’s mind once felt already sinful enough. In fact, even if he had tried to be careful, even if he had not injured him yet, even if he had not done it with any ill intent, this had still been a wicked abuse of Hiccup’s trust. For any dragon, across every species, even among the most conceited of Night Furies, this kind of act, the same act that the awful queen performed every day, was considered more repulsive than murder. He had been blinded by hope. Humans and dragons could not communicate. It had all been a stupid fantasy.

Just before Toothless could pull back completely, and cease pushing on the obstacle that stood between his and his rider’s mind, something suddenly snapped.

The rock hadn’t fallen off the cliff, it had turned to thin rubble, and its parts had started rolling down into nothingness. Toothless felt like stumbling forward, dizzily.

For a moment, he could feel it, Hiccup’s mind resonating with his own.

_“Hiccup! Can you hear me?”_ Toothless asked for one last time. All his hope and guilt and fear imbued into those simple, human words.

The boy’s eyes were almost popping out with fright and confusion and pain. “Toothless?” He exclaimed, his voice a rough, trembling whisper.

Just then, before Toothless could begin to celebrate, a thick, red stream of blood started gushing out of the human’s right nostril, trickling down quickly over his lips and chin and tunic. Hiccup looked down, reaching his nose with one hand. He looked at the blood painting his palm. Then, he looked at Toothless, and, finally, his eyes rolled upwards, and he fell.

Toothless felt his heart stop in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I don’t seem able to reach the level of sophistication I originally wanted in this chapter, I still hope you didn't find the part about Hiccup's dream gratuitous, or otherwise distasteful. He is a thirteen-year-old boy though, and this is a coming-of-age story, so it seemed dishonest of me to ignore aspects of life that are part of his development, and which will clearly impact his personality. I tried my best to be tactful, and I don't believe I was particularly explicit, so I'll keep the rating to T for now.  
>   
> As I’ve already said, I'm not planning on writing very explicit stuff in this story, but suggestive themes (both romantic and personal) will be recurrent. If I ever feel like describing some actual smut, I shall be doing it separately (assuming there’s any demand for it of course...).


	17. Falter

**(Astrid)**

 

A piece of white moon shone brightly upon Berk. It was one of those clear, quiet nights that had most Vikings gaze at the flickering stars, expecting to see clusters of them disappear behind quick shadows, all the while standing by, ready to blow the war-horns at any moment. No shadows had been spotted yet, but the night was still young, and like the young, it felt fitful and unpredictable.

While beautiful to watch, these kinds of nights were actually worse than the dark, cloudy ones. When it was overcast, people had no choice but go to sleep and pray for a good rest, hoping their house was not the first to be set on fire. When it was clear however, Vikings grew restless, because, if a raid was to occur, they were expected to spot it from the distance and warn everyone else. Few were the warriors who could manage to sleep when the summer stars travelled the sky, and Astrid was one such vigilant warrior.

She was sitting on a boulder, just before a steep fall from Berk’s eastern cliffs, far from the plaza, far from the more trafficked areas, though still rather close to her house, which wasn’t too distant from the great bridge that led to the arena. Astrid could have taken a mere three steps from where she sat, to fall towards certain death, yet, despite the peril, she had always enjoyed sitting on that boulder, overlooking the south-eastern horizon, surrounded by grass and quiet. July was a beautiful month, she thought, truly the best time of the year, if it weren’t for the constant threat of dragon raids.

Astrid savored the balmy summer breeze carrying the smell of night-flowers. She listened languidly at her sleeping village, and at the distant bobbing of wooden boats down in the docks. The calm waves could also be heard softly washing the feet of the tall cliffs, as sea-mist rose from below the precipice. The mist was almost iridescent in the moonlight, and Astrid could not help losing herself in its airy movements. She hoped to see shapes or visions, explanations, premonitions of some sort, but there was nothing, only plumes of salty vapor. Was she not supposed to be favored by the gods? That’s what everyone had always told her.

A gentle voice startled her from her reverie.

“Astrid, dear,” said Aslaug, her mother. “You should sleep. There’s people on the lookout already. There’s no need for you to keep awake every night too.”

Aslaug had long chestnut hair tied in a braid, which was then coiled to a round bundle behind her head. Her face was fair, just like her daughter’s, but she did not share her blue eyes; those, Astrid had taken from her father. The woman wore no armor, yet her figure was still imposing, despite being leaner than most women, particularly at her hips. She used to be a formidable fighter (or so Astrid had been told), before she’d taken a Nadder spine to the knee. The injury had forced her to abandon her aspirations as a shield-maiden. Losing a limb below the main joint didn’t always prevent Vikings from fighting, but a bad knee or shoulder were a different thing entirely. No prosthetic could make up for the loss of mobility.

Nowadays, Aslaug did not use much of her strength during the raids. She was still somewhat able to fight, but she preferred putting her strength to use in more productive, rather than destructive activities. Ever since Astrid had been little, the woman had maintained that Berk had plenty of warriors already, and that people tended to forget their need for good sturdy sails, or rope, or thread, and sometimes even clothes.

Astrid loved her mother dearly, but she often felt sorry for her. Perhaps it wasn’t too bad being a woman, if unable to fight, yet she had always thought it to be her unspoken obligation to train twice as hard for her mother’s sake. If her mother could not fight, she was going to make up for her absence on the battlefield.

“It’s my duty mom. Dragon training is over, I’m a warrior now.” Astrid said sternly.

“Aye,” Aslaug sighed. “So is most everyone else. But ya don’t see them _all_ moon-bathing every chance they get.”

Astrid said nothing.

“Ya still shaken up about the Haddock boy?” Her mother asked with an abrupt tinge of sincerity, as she sat beside her on the boulder. It was clearly supposed to be a question, though it sounded more like an uncomfortable statement.

Astrid looked as if preparing her face to scowl, but she stopped herself, and went back to studying the rising sea-mist, trying not to meet her mother’s eyes. “I don’t give yak-shit about him,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, Astrid. You can lie all you want to the other folk. But I’m yer mum. Can’t lie to me. Not for long anyway.” The woman looked towards whatever it was that her daughter was observing in the moonlit haze. “Did ya like ‘im?” She asked.

“ _What?!_ I _HATED_ him!” Astrid snapped immediately. She shouted the words, her voice as clear as the night’s sky. She had surely been heard across the whole village.

Her mother produced a very short but arresting hush. “Ya don’t have to yell! _Some_ are actually tryin’ to sleep, ya know.”

“I _hated_ him!” Astrid hissed under her breath, using the chance to reiterate.

“Hmmm… well... the one doesn’t always preclude the other.”

“You can’t _like_ and _hate_ the same person,” Astrid retorted indignantly. Sometimes her mother would say stuff like that, which Astrid always disapproved of. Vikings ought to be matter-of-fact about things, and drivel of that kind had no place in warrior’s philosophy. “It’s nonsense!” She added, trying to emulate the austerity of her father.

Aslaug did not speak for a while, but she grinned, like someone listening to a joke they already knew. Astrid hated when older Vikings did that with her. It made her feel like a child, back when they used to make fun of her for being stubborn. She was a woman grown now, and a warrior too.

Her mother finally sighed. “Fine, I’ll admit ya did seem to dislike Stoick’s boy during dragon trainin’.” She nodded casually. “So why is he in yer head so much then?”

Astrid did not respond. Her mother waited, but soon decided to desist; she knew when to stop prying with her daughter. Before she could get up to leave though, Astrid conceded a few more words, almost against her own will.

“He betrayed us mom. Most thought he was soft in the head, but that’s not true. He was weak, but he wasn’t stupid. Not _really_. But he betrayed us anyway in that unspeakable way. He seemed so sure of what he was doing. It’s... I thought…” she sighed her deepest sigh yet, “I don’t even know what I thought.”

This was the first time Astrid had confessed any of her preoccupations on the matter. Her mother looked pleasantly taken aback by her sudden openness. She laid a hand on her shoulder with a glad smile.

“Ya know… the boy was just like his mother. Brainy. A lot too.” Aslaug claimed. “I remember arguing with Valka once. It was me and Helga against her. Can’t remember what our gripe was about. What I _can_ remember is: she had me _contradict_ some of Helga’s words… or something like that. Fact is, she got angry with me, and I ended up fighting with Helga, while Val strolled home like nothing’d happened.” She chuckled.

“Oh I _did_ beat Helga though. Oh yes,” Aslaug added quickly with a satisfied nod. “I was the better fighter. But, when we both realized… well... there was a crowd, you see.” She grinned at the memory. “We had been both beat. And by mere talking at that! May be that Val was right. May be that she was wrong. But, whatever our gripes with her, _stupid_ she was surely not.”

Her mother looked up then, humming. “Both were queer. Bitch and pup.” Her voice was gentle, despite the slightly bitter words.

“Weren’t you friends with Valka?” Astrid asked in a temporary bout of curiosity.

“With Val? We… didn’t agree much over things. But yes… we were friends, I suppose. Would be calling her much worse if we weren’t.” The woman gave a brief impish smile, behind which was some other emotion that Astrid could not read.

Aslaug saw that Astrid seemed unsatisfied with her answer. “They thought… _different_ ,” She explained, wrinkling her nose. “Not like _we_ think. Never a normal idea spawned from their big heads.” She inhaled deeply, and exhaled. “Poor Stoick. He loved them both more than life. Still does. I pity him, truth be told. But it won’t help the village to think like them two. Am I right?” She turned to look at her. “We’re at war. And we’re _Vikings_ , aren’t we?”

Astrid nodded, hoping her mother would leave it at that. The previous veiled praise for the boy, or for his late, like-minded mother, was not helping her steady her conflicting opinions about Hiccup. She had hoped for harsher and clearer judgment. Although she knew there was some truth behind the woman’s words, she did not need this sort of conversation at the moment. She did not need more doubts.

In fact, the last few months had been a continuous struggle to purge herself of such doubts. She hacked at trees twice as often, especially at a very specific one, which she had begun identifying as the source of all her turmoil: she had secretly named it the _Hiccup-Tree_. It was of course just an oak like any other in the forests of Raven Point. Perhaps it was a bit on the younger side, but still strong enough to receive the sharp end of her axe for a couple of years, without falling. It helped her calm her nerves and clear her head, though not for long.

She also fought in all the raids with all her vigor, and yet, not one dead dragon in the list of her accomplishments. Besides, after Hiccup’s escape, the ceremony had not been renewed, since the chosen champion could only be one per year, and Gothi, their priestess and healer, had elected the chief’s son in the name of the gods. There was no altering a decision on Berk if the gods were behind it. Thus, Astrid was not allowed to replace Hiccup as champion, which left her record of slain dragons shamefully void.

Then again, none of her peers had yet managed to celebrate their first kill either. Even so, that meant nothing to the fierce girl. She had always been sure that, at the end of her very first official raid, she’d be able to drag some Deadly Nadder’s head at the chief’s feet, and receive a single nod of praise from one of the greatest Vikings alive. A single nod was enough to her. Any more would have sounded almost patronizing, especially if given by Stoick the Vast. A simple Nadder’s head wasn’t worth more than a nod to the strongest fighter among them. Astrid knew this. Nonetheless, it had been three raids already, and she had produced nothing but a few shaved scales and broken claws.

Tuffnut had actually managed to get himself a Terror’s leg. Although, he’d had no choice; its talons had pierced deep into his calf, so he had cut the little dragon’s leg off. He hadn’t managed to finish it though, and to top it off, he hadn’t been able to walk for weeks after that injury, missing the next two raids. He was still incapacitated, but this didn’t make him any less energetic, especially when it came to complaining about how hurt he was.

It was still July, but, overall, the latest generation of warriors was proving to be a bit of a disappointment, Hiccup notwithstanding. Nobody said anything, yet some were clearly thinking it, and Astrid could practically hear them, as if they were shouting and pointing at her with righteous condemnation.

She was supposed to be the example. She was supposed to make up for Hiccup’s scandal. She was supposed to be a prodigy, and all she had been so far was very much... average. Always uninjured perhaps, but never able to present a kill either.

Actually, being able to stay unscathed was even worse, since the lack of injuries was surely being interpreted as her not trying hard enough, not as a testament to her agility. Aside from her mother, Astrid could almost read the judgment on everyone else’s face, clear as fire in the night.

“Mom?” Astrid broke the silence.

“Yes dear?”

“Is that…?” She pointed with her axe towards the sky to the east. The stars blacked out intermittently. It was either because of some clouds, or…

“Hmmm… I guess it is,” the woman said calmly; a dejected moan escaped her lungs nonetheless. “Don’t push yourself too hard Astrid. You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone.”

Astrid nodded so she would not have to argue, or admit that she actually disagreed with that statement with all her heart. She still had everything to prove, and she was going to do it tonight.

* * *

The tall torch-pillars helped the moon wash most of Berk’s shadows away, making the village look already half-aflame. Dragon fires were also adding to the warm illumination, thus Astrid had no difficulty spotting her winged enemies.

She was fending off dragon claws from the clusters of houses neighboring her own. She had been at it by herself for half the night, as she did not want to have backup during her first kill. She wanted all the credit. No, she _needed_ it.

Her shield had broken, but it was a welcome loss. As decreed by the chief, new recruits were compelled to carry a shield during their first summer as warriors, but Astrid felt much more agile without one. She would much rather trade safety for mobility. Besides, she was not just any recruit, she was said to be the most promising shield-maiden in generations.

After a long while, sweat began to drip from her forehead, and her damp clothes stuck uncomfortably to her skin. Astrid wished nothing more than to remove her armor and clothes, and dive into the cool sea, but the raid was not over yet. Not to mention the fact that she hadn’t yet managed to kill a single Terrible Terror.

Truth be told, she ignored the Terrors. She knew she could easily kill a few, but that was not going to bring her the honor she craved. In fact, it would only make her reputation worse in the future. From then on, everyone would have been able to say that Astrid Hofferson’s first dragon was just a measly little Terror. She could not afford the shame. Her first kill _had_ to be a bigger dragon. A deadlier dragon.

She was losing hope. Most of the beasts in that side of the village were either dead, or had already left with a good catch or bad wound, and Nadders and Timberjacks where nowhere to be seen. A few Gronckles were still buzzing around with their fast wings. There were also a couple of Zipplebacks already engaged against five Viking men, and, finally, a single Monstrous Nightmare chasing sheep into a forgotten alley. The dragon had very light-red scales, and it was smaller than the one they used to have in the arena, but it was a Nightmare nonetheless. It was the perfect prey for her.

_This time. This time, for sure!_ Astrid yelled inside, setting her jaw as she charged towards the lingering dragon’s back, following it into the dark muddy alley. It hadn’t seen her yet, distracted by its own prey.

Despite her rekindled fervor, Astrid did not forget her teachings. _A downed dragon is a dead dragon,_ she repeated, aiming for the joint of the Nightmare’s left wing. She swiftly managed to climb along the dragon’s spine with three agile steps, and, before the dragon could notice the disturbance on its back, Astrid brought down her double-finned axe with both hands upon the main wing-bone, mustering all her repressed anger and frustration.

She roared her Viking war-cry.

Suddenly, in the span of half a heartbeat, Astrid thought she could hear Hiccup’s voice screaming _‘NO!’_ just as he had in the cove, the day he had protected her from the Night Fury. It was a mere flash, but the image sapped most of her strength, along with the momentum of her weapon. The axe came down on the dragon’s main wing-bone much too softly. The blade broke through scale and cut through flesh, spraying blood on her hands and face, but the bone was intact. Astrid looked at her failure, almost unrecognizing of her own hands. She had no time to make up for it. She was flung fast into the air.

The dragon had shaken her off immediately with a sudden jolt of pain. It had noticed her now. It was angry. It did not set its body on fire though, as Monstrous Nightmares often did. Perhaps it did not consider her enough of a threat.

As she flew backwards, Astrid’s empty hands flapped around for purchase, but there was none. That’s when she noticed she no longer held her axe. However, when she began to realize how far she had actually been thrown, all her mind could think of was where she might land. Would her back hit a wall? A rock? Would she become a cripple? Would she die? She could not see her destination, but she could clearly see those two yellow slitted eyes. They were strange eyes, somehow dissimilar to the ones of the captive dragons she had fought in the arena, or so Astrid thought; she did not have the time to fully consider the observation.

Luckily, her back landed upon grass and mud. She tumbled backwards, out of the dark narrow alley and into the main pathway. She tried to regain her bearings. She hadn’t hurt her neck, but the bone-shaking impact had been harsh on her kidneys and spine. She stumbled, which was fortunate, since it helped her avoid the stream of fire that the dragon had just spat towards her. She felt the heat.

The Monstrous Nightmare charged. Weaponless, Astrid grabbed a pebble, and threw it at one of its eyes. They were large and easy targets, and her aim was exceptional for her age. The pebble hit the dragon’s left reptilian eyeball. It yowled in pain, thrashing left and right while Astrid backed away in search of another weapon. She was not given enough time.

Half-blind and much angrier, the dragon charged again towards her, its scales now coated with bright fire. Astrid dodged, tumbling quickly to the side, gritting her teeth at the pain on her lower back. The flaming dragon crashed against a house’s wooden wall. It was the Brunsons’ house. Splinters of wood exploded as the large dragon trampled the whole side of the building. Most of the flames died at the impact.

Astrid had never seen a dragon ram an entire wall to the ground so easily before, but Brunson’s house did appear to have suffered a few fires in the past. The wood was already charred black in places, and it had not been repaired properly. Still, seeing houses being destroyed was a common occurrence on Berk, where about a fourth of the structures was rebuilt or replaced by the end of each summer. So, Astrid paid the house little mind.

_I have to kill that dragon!_

Astrid took that chance to hurry back into the narrow alley to get her axe. This time she would not hesitate. She returned within the span of ten quick breaths, axe in hand, but what she saw before her eyes made the recovered weapon slip from her grip.

The house had nearly collapsed already, and the last pieces of broken roof were raining down with heavy wooden clunks. The Monstrous Nightmare was dead, decapitated by Vignir Brunson’s sword. The often aloof, black-bearded man had not seen Astrid leave, nor return. No one had. However, losing her prey to Vignir was not what was making Astrid’s stomach turn.

The worst part was seeing Vignir and his wife Petra with a terrible fear upon their faces. It was a special kind of fear; a kind of fear which Astrid had never quite witnessed in first person before. They were carrying their youngest son Alvin out of the crumbling dwelling, with his arms around their shoulders. The dark-haired eight-year-old boy was screaming screams of agony, which Astrid was never going to forget, for she knew right away, in that very instant, she was the one responsible for them. She was the one whose hesitation had ultimately caused the Nightmare to charge in that direction, and destroy Vignir’s house, where his son Alvin was taking refuge. And it was because of _her_ that both the young boy’s legs were now missing, crushed and severed at the knees by a fallen rafter.

Astrid felt the ground bend and whirl beneath her feet. She fell dizzily on her rear, her eyes gaping at the two parallel streams of blood, where the boy’s legs ought to have been. Her ears focusing only on the desperate wails of pain. She ignored the people rushing there to help. Astrid had seen Vikings get worse wounds, die in worse ways, but never before had she known what it meant to be responsible for someone’s mutilation, and a kid’s at that.

Now, for the first time, she feared she was about to acquaint herself with true guilt.

* * *

She had told them, the next morning. She had told them everything that she had done: how it was her fault, how she’d gotten carried away, how she’d made a mistake. She had not spoken about imagining Hiccup’s voice, however. She knew it was better to leave that part out, considering the chief was inside Gothi’s hut too, as she confessed to being responsible for young Alvin’s dire condition.

She did not beg them, although she secretly wanted to. Not for forgiveness of course, but for a punishment. She was a Viking, and Vikings did not beg, but she did not feel in the position to demand a punishment either. Maybe she was just afraid they might accept.

The smell of herbs and blood and seared flesh filled the dark room like a thick, transparent vapor; it was sweet and sickening. Alvin was lying unconscious upon one of the beds, his wavy black hair stuck to his clammy forehead, in stark contrast to the disturbing paleness of his face. His breaths were imperceptible. Although he was awfully quiet now, Astrid could still hear the echoes of his previous laments.

That night, the young boy’s shattered kneecaps had been removed, his raw stumps had been sewn closed and sealed, but his fever burned high, and he had lost a lot of blood. Perhaps too much, considering Gothi’s miserable expression.

“Ya fought bravely lass, no one can blame ya for that.” Alvin’s father said. “Nightmares go on a frenzy easier than other dragons, and my house was... _I_ was...” The man’s voice caught in his throat. His eyes darted at the chief with a strange, pleading look, then at his son, then quickly back at Astrid. “I... understand how ya feel, but ‘twasn’t you who crushed our house, or me son’s legs,” He continued reassuringly, though his heart wasn’t truly in it. He sounded distant. If anything, the man’s heart sounded broken altogether.

Petra was deaf to their conversation, and so were Alvin’s older brother and sister. They all had their eyes trained expectantly to the sickly figure on the bed. To them, nothing else mattered.

Finally, Stoick the Vast nodded at her, giving confirmation to Vignir’s words. It was a slow, solemn nod, but also gentle, and comforting. It wasn’t at all like the nod Astrid had always hoped to receive from the chief, but in a moment such as this, she embraced it whole, in utter silence.

An unwelcome realization suddenly crossed Astrid’s mind. She had committed a ‘hiccup’, like the ones Stoick’s only son and heir was often blamed for. She had caused damage to the village and its people by acting carelessly on the battlefield. The only difference was that, unlike Hiccup, she was an approved warrior, and she could actually fight. Was that somehow enough to give her a free pass?

Sure, Hiccup had caused countless disasters with his contraptions throughout the years, but no one had ever been put on his deathbed because of it, although it had often been a close call. She could feel some form of injustice lurking somewhere underneath the whole thing, but Astrid’s mind was too frightened and confused by her own guilt to make sense of it. Besides, Hiccup was the last person in the world she wanted invading her head at the moment.

Part of her was just relieved to hear that they didn’t blame her for the incident, and she honestly wanted to accept their judgment, but in the end, she found their opinions mattered little. Astrid still blamed herself, and she was going to be much harder to convince. It was not just a matter of reputation. Deep inside, she could feel it: in one way or the other, Alvin’s blood was on her hands.

She looked. There was indeed blood on her hands, now caked and dark, but it was only from the shallow cut she had opened on the Nightmare’s wing. Of that type of blood, there wasn’t nearly enough on her. She had been an utter failure.

As she left Gothi’s place, walking under the uncomfortably warm sun, and wincing at the dull intermittent ache across her lower back, Astrid could not get rid of the violent sinking sensation in her gut. It was almost painfully strong, like being punched, and vicious, like a poison cramping up her insides. She turned quickly into a deserted alley, and retched, yet the feeling would not leave her. She dry-heaved again. Nothing. Then, as silently as she could, she cried, and trembled, smothering her need to sob with deep breaths, afraid she might be heard. Vikings did not cry.

Could she die of guilt and shame? She wondered. If that’s what was happening to her, she’d rather it be quicker. Yet, beside her upset gut and her aching kidneys, she was disgracefully healthy, so, before long, she forced herself to regain her composure, bottling up her feelings as tightly as she could, and she began to trudge her way back home.

As she walked, Astrid saw a few men preparing pyres in the plaza. Other people had actually died in that raid, she realized. Truth be told, death was rather common on Berk. No one talked much about it, but it was always there, during summer and winter both, like an unfriendly neighbor.

Astrid did not personally know the Vikings who were supposed to be sent to Valhalla that evening. They were clearly not from any of the more prominent families, otherwise the village might have spared a boat or two for their sendoff. Still, the pyres were too many for a normal raid. Astrid counted five.

It had been a bad raid, though not the worst one in Astrid’s own lifetime. Actually, if something good had come out of the ‘Hiccup’ debacle, it was the fact that Berk no longer had to worry about the powerful Night Fury during raids. Nonetheless, this last one had been easily the deadliest raid of the summer thus far, and Astrid could not fend off the dreadful thought that maybe she ought to have been on a pyre too, after such a failure.

Perhaps she was going to fight even more recklessly in the next raid to make up for it, at least then it would be up to Odin or Freya to decide her fate. Then, it suddenly occurred to her; maybe she was not favored by the gods after all, unlike everyone said. Did Odin wish for her to doubt herself like this? Was this a test from Thor? Or was this the work of the jealous Loki? There were only questions in her mind as of late, and no good answers.

Her doubts lingered, like badly stitched wounds, determined to leave deep, ugly scars. She almost panicked at the notion. She had to hurry, and regain her resolve. The sooner she got rid of her doubts, the smaller the permanent scars within her. However, instead of mending with time, the cracks in her determination had been growing deeper ever since the day Hiccup had left. She had to do something about that, and quickly, possibly before the next raid.

She could go to her parents, but her father was away for the week, and Astrid was not sure she was going to like what he’d have to say. Aslaug might have tried console her, sure, but her mother would not fully understand what she was going through. In fact, it had been a while since Astrid had begun to think that her family was perhaps not as perfect as she had always believed. They were supportive, of course, and she loved them more than anyone, but they did not truly get who she was, who she had to be. This sad disenchantment made Astrid feel a terrible loneliness.

She wished her uncle, Fearless Finn Hofferson, was still alive. _He_ would have surely been able to tell her what to do. She wondered over and over again how her uncle would have dealt with her situation, but his wisdom was far too obscure to her. He had left her much too soon.

Finn had been an incredible Viking and Astrid’s beloved mentor, as well as her hero, before Stoick the Vast. Unfortunately, it was said that, when he had fought the dreadful Flightmare, even he, who had been dubbed ‘Fearless’ in his youth, had frozen with fear before being easily killed. This, coupled with the fact that he had never married, sullied his memory amongst Berkians, and left him without any wife or children to mourn for him, only his older siblings, and Astrid.

When Astrid got finally home, she did not eat any of the bubbling stew, nor did she speak with her mother. The woman was sewing busily by the hearth alongside her aunt. She lifted her gaze, and noticed her daughter’s face. She would ask what was wrong, Astrid was sure of it, but she would to give her time; Aslaug was a patient woman.

Astrid brought in more water from the nearby well. She washed her hands and face. She fed the chickens in the sturdy, spiked pens of their grassy back-yard, which her family rented from the chief, and shared with four of her relatives’ households. Astrid checked on the small pigsty, but someone had mucked it already. She felt glad no dragon had tried to pillage her family’s livestock this time.

Then, she noticed that their shallow, wooden tub was not reclined upside-down upon a wall, as it should have been. It was on the ground, nestled in the usual space between her uncle Magnus’ abode and her own; that’s where two of the four Hofferson households washed when it was warm. When water froze, however, they had to make do inside, trying not wet everything, but, in general, they shared that space in the makeshift shed outside, between their two houses, since there was hardly enough room in either home to comfortably place an actual bathtub.

Berkian dwellings, especially for folk of average wealth like the Hoffersons, were made small and plain, so they could be easily rebuilt in case of dragon-fires, which burned down structures with discouraging regularity each summer. In fact, Astrid’s house had burned five times, and those were only the ones she remembered.

As a result, bigger houses were considered a pointless extravagance by most, and stone houses were not a thing on Berk. Good stone was harder to work than wood, and the island did not provide much of it freely, for Berk was mostly made of mud and pebbles, and extracting stone off its mountains was not considered a worthwhile effort, at least ever since their ancestors had finished the great hall. Even the current chief’s house was not made of stone. They did have a couple of stone-masons in the village, of course, but it was slow, expensive work, and most of their skill was used for making tools, hearths, and the floors surrounding them.

Astrid approached the tub. The ragged curtain, which barely screened the space from eyes and wind, was lifted up. It had been put there by the men of the family, not at all as a safeguard to modesty, a feeling which was unknown to Viking men and women alike, but as a small precaution, lest their naked wives or daughters attracted the attention of others. Fortunately, there had never been any problems of that kind in the Hofferson family.

Of course, the younger lads, who occasionally happened to have business near their place on Laugardagr, did not always hold back their curiosity; not so much because naked women were an unusual sight on Berk, but rather, Astrid suspected, because people from the Hofferson household would hardly ever visit the common bathhouse, for it was an expense their family would rarely indulge in, and could not often afford. Berk’s bathhouse was not free.

Thus, Astrid was mildly aware that her naked figure provided some mystery to the other youths. It was still not the kind of thing she cared about. What some boys found so interesting in women’s bodies was the _real_ mystery to her.

_Would Hiccup want to see me naked, too?_ It was a strange thought. _He might already have, but…_ no; on the few occasions Astrid had gone to the bathhouse at the same time as the chief, Hiccup had never been there. Did the boy prefer washing in his house? He did surely have a private tub, and he could probably command his father’s attendants to fill it for him. Yes, that was it. The boy considered himself superior. The little brat was never going to deign share a bathing tub. He had often looked open and agreeable, but in truth, he had been a spoiled brat after all.

Astrid finally looked inside their own, small tub, and saw that it was filled with murky water, which had not been emptied. She sighed and looked around, hoping to spot the slacker. That’s when she noticed her cousin Bjorn, an athletic boy of eleven years, promising dragon-killer, with fair skin and a short brush of golden hair, the same color as Astrid’s, with whom he also shared his blue, Hofferson eyes. He had fallen asleep, lying stark-naked upon a bench. He was drying off there, sprawled, belly-up, under the midday summer sun.

Astrid realized it was Laugardagr, washing day. Maybe she ought to bathe too, but she was in no mood to prepare the water.

Astrid grabbed a pair of dry, linen under-breeches from the hanging wires outside, and threw them at the boy. He woke up with a disgruntled “wh-what?” He did not even try to be modest as he sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Quit showing off, you hairless lizard,” Astrid said, more jokingly than she would have if she had caught any of his older brothers flaunting their manliness around. She then ordered him to empty the tub behind the outhouse, so others could wash too. She was not planning to use it right now, but there was a principle involved.

Bjorn complained at first, saying he had already mucked the pigsty, but when Astrid frowned, the boy scurried off to his duties, jumping on one foot as he slipped on his smallclothes.

Astrid had almost frightened him with a single glare; the venom lurking inside of her must have shown on her face. She felt sorry about it. Her cousin was a bit wayward and sloppy sometimes, but he was honest and brave, and Astrid cared for him deeply. The boy respected her in turn almost like a mother. He even asked Astrid to spar with him more often than he did his much older and experienced brothers. Astrid appreciated it, but she rarely had the time. She could not neglect her own training.

When Astrid returned inside, Aslaug called for her. She told her she had just finished some work for the Thorstons, and, in the meantime, she had actually made arrangements for Astrid to join her friend Ruffnut in the bathhouse that afternoon. No doubt, it was Aslaug’s subtle way to help ease Astrid’s obviously foul mood.

Astrid did not know how her mother had decided to pay for it, perhaps she had made a good discount to the Thorstons, but Astrid knew better than to ask. It was a kindness she would not refuse, although her pride did not allow her to acknowledge it.

Of course Aslaug knew how to make it easier on her. She just mentioned the offer as one would mention a duty. The woman would often indulge Astrid in that roundabout manner. It was like a silent agreement they had, between a mother and her only daughter.

Astrid did not complain, nor did she thank Aslaug. She simply nodded.

* * *

Ruffnut was waiting at the beginning of the path that led towards the bathhouse, which was just by the forest’s edge, far from the sea, where a stream channeled the necessary water from deep within the woods and mountains. The path was uphill, and Astrid could already feel the ache in her lower back worsen at the sight, but maybe Ruffnut’s charming craziness would make her forget about the pain, and especially about her terrible mood.

“Hey! There you are!” Ruffnut greeted cheerfully.

“Hey,” Astrid said, much less so. They began to climb the path together under the afternoon sun.

“So, did you kill something last night?” Ruffnut asked, as was customary for first-time warriors.

Astrid sighed. _Maybe_ , she thought unhappily, but did not speak. She had sealed her feelings, but they were ready to spill at a moment’s notice. Her silence was interpreted as an obvious ‘no’.

“I swear I almost had this Gronkle at one point,” Ruffnut said, tightening the bundle of clean clothes that she was carrying under her armpit, just like Astrid. “But then Snotlout came to _‘show me how it’s done’_ and _..._ ” she trailed off, implying the rest.

Snotlout and the twins, and even Fishlegs, lived closer together, near the plaza, so it was likelier for them to cross each other during a raid.

“Did he kill it?” Astrid asked.

“Who?”

“Snotlout.”

“No, Snotlout is fine,” Ruffnut replied sadly.

“I mean the Gronkle.”

“I told you, it didn’t kill Snotlout.”

Astrid grunted. She was talking to one of the twins, she knew, but that didn’t make the experience any less exasperating. “Did SNOTLOUT; KILL; the GRONKLE?” She shouted.

“Easy woman!” Ruffnut shrieked defensively. “No need to yell at me! If Snotlout had actually _killed_ a Gronkle, do you think I’d be this calm? I’d be yelling to _you_ first!”

Astrid huffed, mumbling: “I suppose.”

“The day that muttonhead kills a dragon before _you_ , I’ll have to wear flowers on my head, and dance a jig, bare-ass-naked, while Gobber plays his pan pipes!”

Astrid giggled at the image. “I’ll hold you to that. Maybe I’ll sleep through the next raids to see it happen,” she teased, but, secretly, she considered it too. The fear that she might hesitate again in the future had now been planted in her mind, and it made the thought of having to fight in the following raids much more intimidating.

“You _wouldn’t!_ ” Ruffnut hissed, appalled. “Of course, as you are about to confirm, my beautiful butt is certainly worth displaying. But wearing _flowers?! O_ n my _head?!”_ She made a noise halfway between disgusted and horrified.

Astrid laughed, not because of her friend’s jest, but because she knew Ruffnut was not joking.

They reached the bathhouse. It was one of the larger buildings in the village, but, since it was partially hidden among the trees, and far as it was from the village center, it was seldom a target for dragons.

The door was open. Astrid entered first, yet, as she tried to step inside, she was stopped by Flegma, the bathhouse keeper, who’d leaned across the entrance menacingly, the bandage on her missing eye and her vivid mustache making her look even more so. In fact, the woman was the spitting image of an outcast, and she had sneaked up on them like one too.

“It’s us,” Ruffnut informed the half-blind woman.

“I see ya. Are ya bleedin’?” She grunted towards Astrid.

“No, I wasn’t hurt,” Astrid admitted with some shame.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh…” Astrid hadn’t realized; her mind was still focused on last night’s raid. “No, not for a week,” she said more firmly.

“Then come in,” Flegma barked, before asking Ruff the same question.

They each took a piece of soap, a washcloth, and a bigger cloth from a rack (all covered by the bathhouse’s price), before they walked towards the open passage to the right, which led to the room where women usually washed. There was not an actual rule, and nothing prohibited men from using the tubs of that room, but it had become an unspoken practice, mostly so that women could enjoy their baths without having to suffer the ruckus that men made whenever they washed. Of course, sometimes they would all join and bathe together; Laugardagr was also a social occasion, after all.

Astrid and Tuffnut entered the room. The stone floor was ever so slightly inclined towards a line in the middle of the space, almost like the hull of a boat, where water gathered before flowing down a drain. Along the long chamber, were two rows of four sizeable wooden tubs each, and every tub could fit up to four people.

Four of the tubs were being used by a dozen women and girls, some of whom greeted both Astrid and Ruffnut. Two of the tubs were free and filled with hot water, the other two were being emptied by some of the young bathhouse attendants, currently a boy and a girl, who worked there on Laugardagr. Astrid had worked there too for a while, when she’d been younger, carrying buckets of hot water from the cauldrons. It was good exercise for the muscles.

Tuffnut chose one of the available tubs. They stripped, and left their dirty garbs on the bench beside their clean ones. They both undid their braids, or at least tried, because Ruffnut’s longer ones were a tangled mess.

Ruffnut asked for her help, borrowing two of the available brushes. Astrid hesitated a moment, baffled by the girl’s openness with her. Combing someone’s hair was considered a rather intimate thing, and Astrid did not expect Ruffnut to consider her that much of a friend. Beside the months of dragon-training, they had hardly ever talked. They had played together as children, but that had been mostly it. Still, Astrid felt surprisingly flattered. She did like Ruffnut, and even her brother. They were both mildly insane, but they were good fighters, good people; good Vikings.

Smiling, Astrid nodded, and took the brush. She sat on a bucket before her friend, and held one of Ruffnut’s very long side braids. It was going to be hard work.

“I know these knots need some muscle,” Tuffnut said, “but don’t use all of yours, or you’ll scrape my tits off,” she added, jokingly poking Astrid’s graceful, but very present abs.

Astrid grinned, and inspected Ruffnut’s chest with a serious frown. “You got hair there too?”

“ _I_ don’t,” Ruffnut said smugly. Then, she whispered: “But I’m sure Flegma does.”

They both laughed, though Astrid’s back-pain sapped her mirth quickly.

When they were done, they both entered the hot tub together, sighing two deep, contented sighs.

Astrid could feel her limbs relax for the first time that day. She realized her muscles had been clenched ever since the raid, and all throughout her sleepless night and dreadful morning. She basked in the new feeling, easily ignoring Ruffnut, who was absentmindedly poking her leg underwater with a foot.

The warmth was giving Astrid a momentary, but nonetheless much-needed relief from her pains and preoccupations. Nothing could break that delicious spell. Nothing, except what happened right the next instant.

“OI! OI! Did ya hear?!” A young girl’s voice came rushing in.

Astrid’s heart jumped with dread. She opened her eyes, and quickly spotted the small girl stepping inside. She could not recall her name, but the girl was looking at their tub. Towards _her._ The tub’s water felt suddenly too hot.

It was about Alvin, Astrid knew, and she was no longer sure what to hope she would hear. If the boy lived, he was going to be a cripple for the rest of his life, unable to walk without either of his legs. How could she look Alvin in the eyes then, when they saw each other in the village? They even lived so close! How could she deal with the shame? What would she even say to him?!

If the boy had died however… the vileness of that scenario was too dreadful to contemplate, although, by the look Astrid had seen on Gothi’s face, it was probably better if she started doing so.

_No._ She was not ready. She could not deal with this. _Not yet. Not now._

To Astrid’s immense relief, the news was not at all what she was expecting.

“Gobber the Belch!” The little girl shrieked excitedly. “He’s been let out!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EASTER EGG: Did anyone spot the Skyrim reference? :D


	18. Too Short a Blanket

**(Astrid)**

 

The morning was dampened by a delicate rain, like many others which used to grace Berk’s streets and rooftops. It made the soil soft and muddy, and the grass strong. Men and women walked easily under this kind of mid-summer rain, as if it were nothing but a gentle breeze, appreciating the cool feeling of its droplets upon their battle-worn faces. After the fires and mayhem of the last dragon-attack, the soft rain brought solace to the hearts of the island’s people.

Of course, some could find no comfort in it. There were still those mourning the five Vikings who had died in battle, and who had yesterday been sent to Valhalla, from atop their pyres in the plaza. This morning, the cries from those five of Berk’s unfortunate houses had finally ceased. All that was left was just a numbing silence blanketing the village.

Perhaps it was the rain that seemed to muffle the sounds of the docks and alleys, though there weren’t many sounds to begin with in this dull, grey weather. Each Viking went on their usual business, but silently. Instead of greeting each other out loud, they just nodded and smiled, almost as if out of respect for the grieving families, though it might have been a coincidence.

Beside the occasional crying and crowing of Odin’s watchful ravens, the only actual noise that rung in the thick, tepid air was that of a hammer and anvil meeting intermittently inside the forge.

Astrid Hofferson listened to the metallic clashing for a long while, trying to convince herself that this was not a new sound to her ears. She had heard it before, obviously, but the last time she’d heard it, Hiccup was still working there. Did this change things? Was that why the noise from the forge felt so unfamiliar? Maybe she had just forgotten. How long had it been?

Astrid thought about it. About two months had passed, yet it felt like more to her, especially when she looked at the state of her axe, which she had been abusing upon trees (especially one very specific tree near Raven Point), when dragons were not available. She did try to care for the weapon, but, after two months of hacking and cutting and throwing, it required the urgent attention of an actual weapon-smith. At least that’s what Astrid told herself, in order to justify her immediate visit at Gobber’s forge, the morning after his release.

Astrid entered the smithy. The structure’s doors and windows were completely open during the summer. Some of the main room’s walls were actually made of wooden panels, which had been removed, to allow for better airflow. Gobber had his back facing the entrance.

Astrid looked around. The amount of accumulated work sitting on the counters was astonishing: bent swords, broken axes, chipped knives, not to mention a couple of rakes and shovels too. Two full months’ worth of repairs. Did Berk really have so many weapons?

Astrid timidly cleared her throat to make her presence known. Gobber stopped pounding on the metal. He turned around. He saw her.

“Mornin’, Astrid,” the blacksmith greeted, with a casualness that left Astrid utterly stunned.

She had expected _anything_ but a normal greeting such as that one. It caught Astrid off guard, making an uncomfortable lump form in her throat. Or had it been there all along? She swallowed it. What was she afraid of? She had just come to care for her axe, hadn’t she? Why did she feel such unease?

Suddenly, she noticed something: Gobber looked different. Very different. The once strong, muscular man had lost a lot of weight. His arms looked thinner, and his clothes weren’t tight around his belly anymore. His face was sunken and pale, with new scars trailing his cheekbones, and around one eye. Beard had grown on his chin and jaw, which he used to shave. His braided blonde mustache was still there though, but it was unkempt. While always a mark of honor and might, Gobber’s two missing limbs now appeared terribly absent. The man had never looked like a cripple before, but the sight of him now, after two months of imprisonment, was heartbreaking. He looked older. It was almost as if a different person had replaced Berk’s jolly, burly blacksmith.

Astrid couldn’t help staring for a while, biting the inside of her cheek so as not to look sorry for the man. Not because she meant to be cruel, but because she knew that pity was hardly ever appreciated among proud Vikings. It would be an insult, and Astrid respected Gobber, or at least she used to. She was not sure anymore.

“Something wrong, lass?” The man asked with a strange sort of concern, as if his question was partly rhetorical.

_Are you kidding me?!_ Astrid thought. She had meant to say it out loud, but she held her tongue. She thanked Thor when she realized that at least Gobber’s voice had not changed. He was indeed the same person.

“My axe… needs repairing,” she said.

“Yer axe?” Gobber hummed thoughtfully for a while. “This is Hiccup’s work ya know. He used to be the one who patched it up.”

Astrid grimaced with mild disbelief. “ _He_ made this?”

“Aye. He never told ya? Though… now that I think about it, tha’s not surprisin’.”

Astrid tried not to contemplate whether this discovery had any implications. It was just a weapon; the hands that had forged it did not matter.

“Can’t _you_ repair it? The blade is dented, and it wobbles a little bit.”

“’Course I can,” Gobber exclaimed as he picked the weapon from Astrid’s hands to study it. “He never let me touch it, ya know? Said my _hand_ was too rough. Not my hook mind you, my _good_ _hand!_ Can ya believe that little bastard? Huh!” He snorted, grinning at some past memory.

The man was missing another tooth. It wasn’t easy to notice, but Astrid saw it, and it made her heart sink further. She wanted to ask about Hiccup. She _had_ to ask about Hiccup. That’s why she was there, wasn’t it? Yet, she did not really know how, or even what to ask. As a Viking, she decided she did not need to ease into the matter. She was going to be straightforward about it, as was proper.

“Why… why did you do it Gobber? Why did you let him leave Berk? Why did you help him betray us? Why did _you_ betray...” she hesitated, before saying “...Stoick.” She had been about to say ‘Berk’, but she could not bring herself to accuse the man of betraying the whole village.

Gobber’s expression darkened. He did not look angry. He never did. Yet there was always something that made people uneasy on the rare occasions when he was truly annoyed. Something inscrutable. She had seen it happen, though Astrid had never experienced it herself. It was easy to forget, but, when true conflict arose, Gobber could become almost as dangerous as Stoick the Vast. The blacksmith would gain a strange, formidable aura about him, with the added perk that it was often impossible to tell what he was thinking, since he never actually _looked_ enraged, unlike the chief. He was much more whimsical, and his flippant behavior made him disturbingly unpredictable.

Gobber straightened his back slowly, he breathed in, exhaled, then stepped back towards the worktable to better observe the axe under the window’s light. He did not reply, but Astrid waited.

The blacksmith did not look at her when he finally chose to speak. “So, you’ve finally decided to ask. What kept ya waitin’ so long?”

“I…” Astrid hesitated. She had not expected that question. She had come as soon as possible. “You were in the prisons,” she observed, trying not to sound apologetic. Why would she even feel guilty about that? She had no obligation towards him.

“Aye, aye. And yet, I hear the mighty Astrid can sneak into the prison cells as easy as her own outhouse. Can’t she?” There was an unexpected and unnerving hint of resentment in his voice. Had he expected her to go find him?

Astrid did not respond. She was not going to openly admit she had broken into the caves to talk to Hiccup, when the boy had been held prisoner, since she had not actually been caught. Bucket had not seen her, only Fishlegs had, and the husky boy was too cowardly to make an issue of it. Besides, Fishlegs had followed her inside too, so he had broken in just as much as she had.

“Was it because ya didn’t want to fool Bucket a second time?” Gobber continued. “Or maybe because Astrid Hofferson can’t risk being seen talking with a traitor?”

Gobber was not happy with her, that was now quite clear. The question she had asked had managed to offend him. Part of her was sorry. However, Astrid felt suddenly annoyed too. She wasn’t the one who had broken Berk’s laws of the two. She wasn’t the traitor among them. She did not deserve to be talked to like that.

On the other hand, she could not really think of Gobber as a traitor either. The man had lost an arm and a leg fighting the dragons, he had killed almost as many beasts as Stoick the Vast, and he had gone to (and returned from) more nest-hunts than most Vikings. These facts made Astrid’s already muddled opinion of the blacksmith even more confused, which seemed to be almost the theme in her life lately.

“I just want to know why you defended him. He was wrong. Right? You must agree.”

“Oh I must, must I?”

“Well... yes! He has to be wrong. Are you saying he was _right?_ That we _shouldn’t_ kill dragons?! That’s insane!” She refused to believe Gobber agreed with Hiccup. It just could _not_ be true.

Gobber sighed away some of his temper. “No. I’m just sayin’, we’re _not_ all the same. Some people are born different. Ya can’t will them to conform to what _you_ think is right. Hiccup found what he needed in that Night Fury. We had no right to take this away from him. Besides, the dragon was somehow tame with the boy, Odin only knows how. It would have been stupid to just… kill it.”

To say Astrid felt unsatisfied with the answer would have been an understatement. She actually groaned at her former teacher. “But Gobber! He befriended a _dragon!_ There are laws! I mean, you can’t possibly-”

Her rant was halted abruptly by the startling clatter of her axe being tossed on the counter closest to her. Gobber limped back to the anvil, resuming his previous errand.

“Yer axe ain’t broken yet,” the man cut in. “I have more urgent work.” His voice was the epitome of indifference.

The coldness in those words chilled Astrid to the core. She wanted to protest, yet all the fight within her was suddenly gone.

Astrid would never admit to being dismayed by the man’s tone, but she was. She would never admit that her legs were shaking as she picked up her axe, but they were. She would never admit to leaving the forge in stunned silence, without objection, but, after a short, uncomfortable while, she finally did.

* * *

Astrid spent the following afternoon in the forest of Raven Point, close to the cove where she had found Hiccup and the Night Fury. She did not go to that place though. While beautiful, she did not wish to see it again. Instead, Astrid took the path to the western cliffs, towards the young but sturdy oak, which she had named ‘the Hiccup-tree’, and which she had chosen as the habitual target of her many frustrations.

The trunk had been plenty carved by her axe in the last couple of months, and, today, an unusual amount of sap seemed to be bleeding out of the largest wound. Astrid ignored it. She just threw her weapon at the same spot, harder than ever. Her throws were not as precise as they could have been, and sometimes she’d hit a branch, or she’d miss the tree entirely, but she did not care. This did not count as training. This was only a childish attempt to let her anger and doubt disappear for a while. It did not work as well as Astrid wished, but it was all she could do.

Charge, shout, throw, retrieve the axe, walk back, repeat. Again, and again, and again, from noon till dusk, until the pain of her back and muscles could provide a distraction of its own, which would hopefully drive most thoughts away as she attempted to sleep, later that night.

While the activity allowed Astrid to find some relief from her troubles, her axe did not appreciate being continuously thrown upon a solid trunk quite as much. Before sundown, Astrid’s already wobbling axe-blade finally unhinged itself from the handle. Astrid had been expecting it to happen sooner or later. In fact, she had been trying to make it happen, whilst also trying to fool herself into believing that it was merely fate. Alas, lying to herself was not easy.

The next morning, Astrid returned to Gobber’s forge. She was not really afraid, though the previous day had been the first time the blacksmith had been less than friendly towards her. Part of her wished she did not have to face him again so soon, but, after breaking her own weapon she had left herself with no other choice.

She _had_ to talk to him again. He was the only one who seemed to understand the chief’s son. That’s why, if some answers truly existed regarding Hiccup’s motivations, Gobber was probably the only person on Berk who had them. If Astrid ever wished to find out more about the exiled heir, then the blacksmith was the only Viking she could ask. It would have been better not to get on his bad side, and, so far, she knew she had done a terrible job of it.

When Astrid entered the forge, she noticed Gobber was working alone, just as she had hoped. He even looked more rested than the previous day. A good sign. Astrid waited for him to notice her, hoping not to disturb him. When he saw her, his eyes fell immediately on the broken axe, which she was cradling in her arms, like a mother would a sick newborn. Truth be told, Astrid did feel bad about mistreating her weapon. It was not proper warrior behavior; she knew.

The blacksmith sighed and abandoned his current work. He took the two parts of the axe from her hands, and looked sadly at the pieces.

“‘tis my fault, I s’pose,” he said. His voice was gentle, perhaps even more than usual. Certainly more than the previous day. “I’ll work on it right away, since ya came yerself.”

“Thank you. Can I wait here?” Astrid asked, encouraged by the man’s tone.

“Sure… if ya don’t mind keeping company to a traitor, who am I to complain? ‘tis not like I’ve got _other_ customers to talk to.” Gobber pointed with his prosthetic hammer-attachment towards the damaged weapons on the counters. “Most leave their work here at night, so they don’t have to speak to me. They’ll have to, though… _if_ they want their stuff back.” He guffawed mischievously.

Astrid sat atop one of the wooden worktops, displacing a few bent blades and dull knives. She stayed there silently for a while, unsure of how to start a conversation with the emaciated man. She had to hold back the impulse to offer some help as he worked, for she did not want to insult him again. Besides, she did not know the first thing about weapon-smithing. She could barely sharpen a blade.

“Did you hear Hiccup was seen on Meathead Island?” She began, hoping Gobber would be stimulated by the topic.

“Aye, that was months ago, the day after he left,” Gobber said. “I actually hear Spitelout sent word that he crossed Hiccup on Balheim, but he managed to escape,” he added with barefaced satisfaction.

“ _Balheim?!_ ” Astrid nearly shouted. She had heard that name before. That island did not belong to the Northern Alliance. Had Hiccup gone that far south?

“Oh… I wasn’t supposed to say that, was I?” Gobber admitted, chuckling awkwardly. “Shhhh!” He hushed, putting one finger on his lips. “Only the council knows about it for now. It’s still a _secret_ ,” he whispered naughtily. It didn’t seem to be a slip-up; he had likely meant to say it.

“Then how do _you_ know about it?” Astrid asked. She had started whispering too, such was her surprise. So far, news of the exiled heir had been scanty, to say the least of it.

“Oh I ‘ave me ways…” the man sniggered. “Just don’t tell anyone, yes? Two months with cold stone for a bed ‘ave been quite enough.”

Astrid barely heard the man’s plea, she was too astonished by the news. She had so many questions. “And… he escaped? An ambush? By _Spitelout?!_ How? _When?_ ”

“Twasn’t really an ambush I s’pose… I don’t know the details, lass. But it appears our little ‘ _hiccup’_ is craftier than Spitelout thought. He’s always been craftier than people gave ‘im credit for.”

Astrid hummed her half-hearted agreement. “He was… uhmm… yes. _Crafty._ ”

Gobber nodded. “Should ‘ave seen the contraptions the lad devised. True, they not always worked, but they’re still beyond anything I’ve ever seen.”

Astrid was done pretending. She had not come again to hear the little traitor be praised. Sure, part of her wanted to know more about Hiccup, but praise was not it. Besides, the other reason she had come a second time was to settle things with the blacksmith.

“I know you blame me, Gobber, for what happened to him… and, I guess, to you as well,” she confessed. “But what should I have done? You taught us-”

“Blame ya?” Gobber interjected, pausing his work. “No, I don’t blame ya lass. And I’m sorry ‘bout yesterday. I was grumpy from seein’ all the work our dumb chief left for me, I didn’t mean to kick ya out like that. I should actually be thanking ya.”

“ _Thanking_ me?” She frowned. “For what?”

“For letting me say goodbye to my apprentice. If it weren’t for ya, he’d ‘ave left without a word. I tell ya, he’s as rash and thoughtless as ‘is father.” He shook his head accusingly, but then sighed. “At least I managed to get meself a goodbye hug. Paying for it with two months in a shitty cell was kind of a bargain, considering I may never see the little rascal again. So, no,” he added sadly, “I don’t blame ya.”

Astrid was caught off-guard. She had never expected to be let off the hook by this sort of abstruse reasoning. Although, in hindsight, she probably should have, considering she was talking to Gobber the Belch.

She suddenly wondered why people seemed to be so forgiving towards her lately. Had it always been like that? It made her suspicious. Perhaps Gobber was indeed telling the truth. Somehow, it was easier to accept this sort of logic from _him_ , but the others… What if _they_ were lying? What if they actually despised her, and they were only being polite because of who she was? Vignir, Stoick, Ruffnut… what about her own mother?

No, she was just being paranoid. Vikings were honest and straightforward. They were _supposed_ to be at any rate. Yet, the seed of doubt was already lurking in her mind.

At least Gobber had no reason to lie to her, given the situation he was in. In fact, Astrid was beginning to feel an unexpected sense of camaraderie with the blacksmith. He had likely become the most mistrusted man on Berk, and, after Astrid’s grave blunder in the last raid, she couldn’t help feeling some sort of connection with him.

Besides, Astrid had always respected bravery, and it took a special kind of bravery to do what the man had done. It was a kind of bravery Astrid knew she lacked, but… was that truly a bad thing? Being brave enough to break the rules and laws of the village was not good. Was it?

“You think Hiccup is right? That there was nothing wrong with what he did?” She approached the subject much more calmly than the previous day, hoping not to spark Gobber’s anger again.

“Hiccup is… well, he is _Hiccup_ ,” the blacksmith replied noncommittally. “‘Tis kind of hard to see wrong or right the same as us, when ya’re so different. But, lass, wouldn’t it be a shame to just ignore those who are different? Not to mention having them banished or killed?”

Once again, the answer did not satisfy Astrid in the least. It sounded like the same drivel her mother would often come up with. Astrid liked clear, straight answers, and they all seemed to have disappeared from the world. Certainty over anything had suddenly become a nostalgic childhood memory.

Was that what it meant to grow up? It couldn’t be. She seemed so alone in her struggle over answers. All her peers, Snotlout, Ruff and Tuff, and even Fishlegs, they were all turning fourteen this year, but they were still as eager and confident as ever.

Astrid decided to abandon that topic entirely, and postpone it for another day. She did not like this conversation. Maybe she had to make up her own mind, however long it took. She resumed observing Gobber’s work in silence.

Astrid could not help staring at the blacksmith as he hammered the axe-blade upon the new wooden handle, his diminished strength making the task appear harder than it should have been for the experienced man. Perhaps she had to help out. It was her axe, after all.

“Oh don’t ya look at me like that,” Gobber groaned nonchalantly. “I’ve looked far worse than this, believe me. A barrel of ale and a roasted pig, and, by next Laugardagr, I’ll be good as new. Except for the usual missing… _parts_ ,” he added, waving around his hammer-prosthetic.

“I didn’t mean to…” Astrid murmured. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Gobber said with a quick smile. “Kindness only offends the arrogant and insecure. Ya may be Viking, and a Hofferson at that, but ya shouldn’t fear to be kind sometimes, ‘specially with yerself.”

Gobber offered Astrid a strange, tender look. It took her quite a while to realize what the man was actually saying.

_He knows about what I did to Alvin._

He must have also known about her admission of guilt regarding the maimed young boy, who was currently fighting for his life in Gothi’s hut.

_How is it that he knows everything, even after spending two months in a cell?_

“I’m sorry about what happened the other day,” Gobber finally said.

“It’s _my_ fault Alvin’s hurt,” Astrid replied hurriedly, in her best, level voice, before the man could try to console her. She did not want consolation. She did not deserve it.

“Ya know that’s not true, lass.”

Astrid sucked in a nervous breath, trying to keep her composure. “Yes it _is_ , and I don’t care what you say. I don’t think Vignir really believed it either when he told me the same thing.”

“Vignir couldn’t blame ya even if he wanted to. He knows the fault is mostly his. He knew their house was ready to fall any day now. Even a Terror could have brought it down. Two years he neglected the repairs. Twice the house was on fire. He’d been warned about it too. The chief is furious with ‘im, but he can’t make much of a fuss, if the man is to mourn a son.”

“Even so, it’s my fault,” Astrid insisted, ignoring the blacksmith’s reasoning. She knew there was truth in his words, she had seen the whole house crumble like dry sand, but the guilt she still felt in her stomach made all logic irrelevant.

“Astrid, things like that happen every summer,” Gobber said, changing the prosthetic attachment on his stump. “We’re Vikings on this island, it’s an occupational hazard for all who live here. Our duty is to fight, which ya did, and to care for the safety of those who can’t, which Vignir did not.”

“Maybe, but… if I had just managed to-”

“Ya _can’t_ think like that.”

“I _have_ to!” Astrid retorted. If she felt so guilty, then it must have meant she was! Why did people seem unwilling to understand this? She was no longer a child; they did not need to coddle or protect her. “I’m a warrior now!”

“Aye, aye…” Gobber replied, smiling a fond smile, “and stubborn like a Haddock. But at least ya’re prettier, right?”

Astrid did not appreciate the mockery. Those were the same words her family used to tell her as a child, whenever she refused to agree over something. The fact that Gobber knew about it made her feel annoyance and surprise in equal measure. The man knew her better than she had previously thought. Perhaps he had actually cared about her as a trainee, even if only a fraction of how he cared about Hiccup. It was a heartwarming thought, but Astrid tried to suppress it. She remained silent.

Gobber let out a sonorous sigh. “Trust me. It’s no use to blame yerself.”

“You all seemed ready to blame Hiccup whenever _he_ messed up,” Astrid murmured, “and I blamed him too, so why shouldn’t I blame myself?”

Even though it looked like she was pouting, she thought she had brought up a great point. Astrid was inadvertently turning this conversation into a contest of wits. It was now a debate, and she just had to win. She almost forgot about seeking for answers.

“Well, for starters, Hiccup didn’t mess up just once, and, truth be told, the chief wanted ‘im to stay inside mostly to keep ‘im from harm’s way. I don’t think Stoick much cared about the lad’s actual disasters. At least... _most_ of the time. He just wanted Hiccup to be safe. ‘Guess things haven’t turned out the way he wanted, eh?” The man tried to chuckle at his own rhetorical question, but a despondent hum came out instead.

“Don’t beat yerself Astrid,” Gobber continued, “someday the time comes for all of us to regret something we did. It’s bad, I know. But if ya care for some of yer former teacher’s advice, let me suggest ya to learn from this. Learn who ya want to be. So, next time, ya can try to make mistakes that ya won’t regret.”

“But I don’t want to make _any_ mistakes! Mistakes are unacceptable!”

“Are they now?” Gobber asked disapprovingly. “And what should one do after one makes a mistake, eh? Ya don’t see me cry all day about _my_ mistakes, and, believe me, I’ve made quite a few. Go ahead,” he grunted, raising his prosthetic, “tell my missing hand it’s _unacceptable_. Should I never get up in the mornings?”

Astrid felt her heart beat faster. Gobber’s deep, challenging voice, was not easy to confront in an argument. Of course, she knew the man meant no harm, but her heart was not listening. There was just something about arguing with Gobber that made her feel vulnerable, although she could not say what.

Perhaps she was not used to it. After all, her father had taught her that it was proper for kids to obey, rather than question the more experienced members of the tribe, and Gobber was certainly one of them, which was probably why Astrid had never argued with her former teacher. Just a few months before, it would have been unthinkable. Despite her unease, however, Astrid held her head high, complimenting herself for her strength of will. As she did so, a sudden consideration occurred to her.

_Didn’t Hiccup_ _argue constantly with Gobber? If the little wimp wasn’t afraid to talk back to Gobber’s, or even Stoick’s shouts, then maybe… maybe…_

No. Was she really about to think that Hiccup had more guts than her? Astrid stopped herself, hastily putting together a counter-argument.

“Alright,” she said, “but still… when you put others in danger, it’s diffe-”

The blacksmith cut her off. “Ya telling _me_ about puttin’ others in danger? Ya realize I’ve been dragon-training kids since before ya could walk, _right?_ I’m sure ya’d already heard the rumors when ya joined in the arena. I’ll tell ya this: they’re no rumors. There have been accidents. Sometimes bad ones. I don’t like talking about it. Those things are part of the job. I’m still not proud that those things happened. But look at me.” He left his work on the anvil as he spoke, then walked closer to her so she could look at his face. Once again, he did not look angry, but the tone of his voice weighed heavily in Astrid’s stomach.

“I _never_ stopped teaching,” he continued. “I fought it through, and trained lads and lasses again and again, and better every time _because_ of what happened.”

“I’ve felt how ya feel,” Gobber said after a pause, gently raising Astrid’s chin in his good hand. His voice was lower now, and it brimmed with some old, forgotten sorrow. “But a Viking keeps going, ‘cause it’s the right thing to do, for the good of the village.” He patted her shoulder-guard twice, then walked back to the anvil, resuming his repairs on the broken axe.

Astrid remained speechless, dangling her legs as she sat on the crammed work-table. She listened silently at the tinkering sounds of the smithy. She did not mean to stay silent, but the words had turned to excess saliva in her mouth. She swallowed hard, once, twice.

At first, she considered if she had actually lost the argument. Had she been beat? Her face was clearly spelling defeat, but Gobber’s confession was making her forget to feel ashamed about it. She realized he was telling the truth. Two kids were said to have died in the arena under Gobber’s watch. It had happened many years before. No one liked to speak about it, but Astrid had already heard of this rumor. How could she forget?

At that moment, Astrid wished nothing more than to accept the man’s advice, and head back home to sleep. She decided she respected Gobber, despite what he had done to help Hiccup escape, so she did value his insight. On the other hand, she still could not see how to forgive herself, like the man was suggesting. Should she really just move on? Would the gods accept it? Could she even do it? What if Alvin did not survive his amputations?

The tightness in her throat prevented her from coming up with a good response to the blacksmith, who spoke again as he worked.

“Anyway,” he said, “unlike what happened to me, no one will blame ya for Alvin. The chief knows about the state of Brunson’s house. Everyone knows Stoick doesn’t like it when people hold off on repairs. Vignir knows it too. He knows that his own negligence is to blame, that’s the only reason Stoick hasn’t beaten him bloody already. He told me this ‘imself.”

Astrid realized something for the first time during their conversation. “You… spoke with the chief?” She muttered, betraying her curiosity. She had not expected Gobber to willingly talk to the chief again, given the beating he had received from him, nor had Astrid thought that the chief would accept talking to the blacksmith so soon after his release. Her astonishment showed on her face plain as day. Gobber seemed amused by it. He chuckled.

“Aye. He can’t afford to stay mad at me for long,” Gobber said. He suddenly looked healthier, even considering he had been starved for two months in a prison cell. The man’s endurance was truly worthy of the best of Vikings. “Besides, ‘tis not like he’s got many friends left,” he added.

“What? But... he is the _chief_.”

“So? Ya think he can go on _‘chiefing’_ without support? He might need to start watching his back soon,” Gobber whispered. They might have been alone in the forge, but he looked cautious as he spoke.

Astrid was aghast by the implication. “But- but he’s the best chief Berk has ever seen! _Everyone_ says so.”

“He’s lucky to have such loyal supporters as yerself. If he knew what was proper, he’d be thanking you.”

“He doesn’t need to thank loyalty,” Astrid rejoined. “He is the chief!”

“Aye, but might be that some don’t like it anymore.”

“Like who?”

Gobber shrugged. “Oh… what’s a poor blacksmith to know of such things, eh?”

“ _Gobber_ … _?_ ” Astrid insisted. She saw herself crossing her arms sternly. She felt strangely at ease talking to him now. Had something changed?

“Hmm…” The man hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t know… an Arvidson perhaps, or a Fjalarson? Or maybe a Jorgenson?”

Astrid straightened her back in surprise. “ _Spitelout?_ But if he’s not even here.”

“He’ll come back before long. Ya’ll see. And he’ll come back empty-handed.”

“How could you _possibly_ know that? He might actually catch Hiccup before the ice sets in.” She claimed, hopefully. Part of her wanted to finally have something other than a tree to target with her axe, and if Hiccup was brought back, she’d make sure he knew the depths of her current misery. He did deserve at least a good beating for what he had caused within her, even if Gobber disapproved. To think she had even apologised to him. She regretted it now.

“Aye, he might catch him,” Gobber agreed. “Spitelout is a great sailor, and an even better hunter. But he’ll still return empty handed to me.”

“What does that even mean?” She asked with a frown.

The blacksmith made a noncommittal sound, shrugging once more. “‘Tis hard to explain. Hope I’m wrong though,” he said casually. “But ya don’t have to worry about such things, lass. If Stoick isn’t seein’ straight, that’s his problem, not yers.”

Astrid could hardly understand what she was hearing, let alone believe it. Had Gobber gone insane in that prison? If he had, he did not look it. Astrid had lost much of her faith in herself lately, she could not afford to lose her faith in the chief too. In her eyes, Stoick looked as wise and strong as ever. In fact, he was currently preparing one of the largest nest-hunts ever attempted, the third one in the same year. It was scheduled just before summer’s end.

She would have gone too, but no warrior was allowed to join those dangerous expeditions before their seventeenth winter. It was partly a precaution. Berk could not afford to endanger the younger, more inexperienced warriors; not before they had fathered a child of their own, at least. Of course, it was not just a matter of numbers, but also a rule of honor. Older warriors had the right to reach Valhalla first. On Berk, the older a person was, the more eager they were to fight. True Vikings were not supposed to die of old age.

At the age of fourteen, however, Astrid was still too young to figure out the truth; that this nest-hunt was merely an act of vengeance and desperation, from a man whose rule was slowly beginning to crumble under his feet. A man, Stoick, who was afraid to never see his son and heir again, and who knew not what else to do. Alas, Gobber was too kind to tell Astrid the whole truth of it, breaking her already troubled heart.

* * *

The following afternoon, after seeing to her chores, Astrid was offered to join in the usual game of tug of war, which most teens liked to play on the grassy field by the arena’s grounds, using old sailors’ ropes. It was a nice day, but Astrid hesitated at first. She knew, however, that her foul mood was not going to improve by itself, so she finally decided to accept.

This time, it was boys against girls, five versus five. Despite being teamed up against Snotlout and his boys-only gang, Astrid’s team won the game, and it was in no small part thanks to her own strength and skill. The trick was in the leg-muscles, not the arms. They would have lost if Fishlegs had been playing of course, but the large boy claimed he did not enjoy confrontational activities. It was strange behavior for a Viking. Even Hiccup had tried to play a few times, though his presence was hardly desirable, since all he could do was just get in the way, considering how clumsy he was.

Astrid did not gloat at her victory, unlike most of her teammates, but she could not deny feeling a certain satisfaction. For an instant, she caught herself smiling. Alas, her joy was short-lived, as the news of Alvin’s death suddenly reached her ears.

She had been expecting it, and yet, she was not ready. When she heard two of the younger boys on the sidelines mention the words _‘Alvin didn’t make it’,_ Astrid bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood. Her eyes burned.

She could not afford to be seen tearing up by the other teens, so, before someone could ask what was wrong, Astrid ran for the woods of Raven Point, without looking back. Trees did not ask questions.

As she ran, Astrid felt a mixture of emotions emerge inside her gut. The worst one of all, of course, was fear, the fear of being cast out. It was an irrational fear, she knew, but it was terrible nonetheless, for it was poignantly tied to the notion that her actions had led to a young kid’s death. Although she was aware she had not actually killed anyone, why did it still feel as if she had? Should she be worried?

No, probably not, yet apprehension had invaded her mind, like a snake inside her home that she could not drive out. Now that Alvin was dead, part of her thought the boy’s grieving family might actually decide to blame her publicly. Everyone was going to realize she was responsible for his death. Worst of all, everyone was going to despise her for it. Astrid had tried to avoid thinking about this possibility in the previous days, but the notion was now inescapably loud inside her head.

Despite her trembling knees, she kept rushing ahead, hoping to outrun her spiraling thoughts, but it was no use. She felt as if she had fallen from an impossibly tall cliff, barely alive, scrambling for purchase on the sharp wave-beaten rocks, at the mercy of a harsh storm's sea, and her family, and Berk, and every soul in the nine worlds of Yggdrasil, they all stood above that cliff, looking down on her, judging, pushing her underwater with heavy stares of stone.

Her feet hurt, her back hurt, and even her bitten tongue throbbed with pain, but Astrid kept running to escape that dreadful image.

Finally, she reached the wicked _Hiccup-tree._ It still stood, as always, waiting, strong and proud, despite being marred by the blades of her axe.

Astrid unbuckled her newly-repaired weapon, but she no longer had the strength to throw it. Her arms were tired, so she hacked weakly at the trunk, using the axe like a mere chisel, for that’s what the weapon had become in her hands.

As she scraped off flakes of bark and wood, Astrid tried to calm herself by recalling Gobber’s words: _‘a Viking keeps going, ‘cause it’s the right thing to do,’_ he had said.

“I’m still a _Viking_ damnit!” She shouted, attempting to lodge her blade deeper into the tree, using her guilt for Alvin’s death as fuel.

However, as she said those words, in this most inappropriate of moments, Astrid was also joined by a new, the guilt she felt for playing a part in Hiccup’s exile. She was painfully aware of being responsible for the heir’s official banishment as well. The boy had already been planning to leave of course, but if it hadn’t been for her, he might have returned by now. How was he dealing with being an outcast? Could the spoiled little runt even hunt? Or cook? What if the Night Fury ended up eating him?

Such questions began to plague her as well. If Hiccup died in exile, then she would be partly responsible for his death too, she realized.

It was all too much. Her knees finally gave out. Astrid fell on her legs, sitting down awkwardly by the roots of the oak, her axe still grazing and scratching tiredly at the bark of the sturdy trunk.

“I’m still a Viking. I’m still a Viking.” Astrid kept whispering the words with her eyes closed, as if in prayer. She did then pray to Freya. She prayed for wisdom, and for some resolve. She prayed for the strength to make a firm choice: Would she feel sorry for Hiccup, and keep hating herself for Alvin? Or would she redeem herself for Alvin’s death, and hate Hiccup for making her doubt her Viking instincts?

Astrid was not naïve, she understood her mind better than most teens her age, which only made it worse, because she realized she could not truly _hate_ Hiccup for causing all this turmoil within her. She despised what he had done, sure, but, for some unknown reason, she had a hard time hating him as a person, and she just hated herself all the more for it.

On the other hand, it seemed rather logical to think that Hiccup shared some responsibility for Alvin’s death. Had it not been for Hiccup, Astrid would not have hesitated during the last raid, and Alvin would have still been alive. Perhaps it was only fair to blame him.

“That’s what happens when you don’t _FOLLOW; THE DAMN; VIKING; WAY!_ ” Astrid screamed, hacking at the oak with each word, using the last remnants of her strength whilst laying half-slumped on the ground. She hoped Hiccup would somehow hear her, wherever he was, or that he could maybe feel a bit of her blade upon his skin.

In the end, what Astrid felt today for her role in the heir’s exile could not easily compare to the guilt she felt for the Brunson boy. And yet, fighting down one guilt would still bring up the other. It was like trying to keep warm under a very short blanket. She could cover her chest, but her feet would be exposed to the cold.

She could avenge Alvin, and kill dragons like a proper Viking, but Hiccup’s words would keep her up at night. Or she could contemplate the outcast’s suggestion, but hate herself for being responsible for a young kid’s death.

These were the only two choices she could see before her.

That evening, the evening when Alvin’s funeral-pyre burned, Astrid decided she was going to be a _real_ Viking.

_At least for one more raid. Just one more raid._

Despite Vignir’s absolving words, Stoick’s reassuring nod, and Gobber’s comforting wisdom, she still could not rid herself of the terrible weight of her responsibility. She had to fight, and avenge the poor young boy. It was the only thing she could do to suppress the crippling shame that she felt. As a proud Viking of the Hooligan tribe, Astrid could not afford to live with the knowledge that the only blood upon her hands was human blood.

Thus, the next time a raid occurred, the next time she fought, she would have to kill a dragon, at least one. Maybe it would be _only_ one, just to redeem herself in the eyes of the gods, and then…

_Then… we’ll see._

Perhaps she would have to live with the constant burden of not knowing what the right answer was.

_But until then… until then, I’ll be a Viking._

That night, the night when Alvin’s ashes were left to cool, Astrid fell asleep in her bed, gritting her teeth with newfound conviction. Unfortunately, as if by the cruel will of some god, during her sleep, Astrid dreamt of _him_.

She dreamt of his green eyes, his strange, nasal, unbroken voice. His lips, his slightly crooked teeth. She could see him on the back of the winged beast, like a hero from a tale, like a child-god, a deviant youth from some Asgardian hall.

It was raining harshly, just like that day. Even in her dream, she stood, awed by the extraordinary vision of the boy on dragon-back, his wet, auburn hair sticking to his forehead. Anger and fear, outrage and defiance marked his features. He was rather handsome like that, Astrid thought. He, and even the black-scaled dragon, growling viciously beneath him, held an odd, otherworldly charm.

Astrid suddenly realized who the subject of her dream was. She was dreaming of _Hiccup_ , the little runt responsible for every bad thing that had happened to her since spring! Somehow, in her dream, she had forgotten all about the spite she felt towards the boy. As soon as she realized this, she woke up.

“Astrid?” Aslaug’s sleepy voice spoke in the darkness of their house.

“Just a bad dream, mom.”

“Ya’re alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Astrid replied, “it’s nothing.”

_Nothing,_ she thought. _Nothing,_ she repeated in her mind, sinking her nails in the wool of her covers. _No, not nothing. No one._

Astrid tried to force herself back to sleep, as she was going to try for many nights to come. Alas, sleep was unattainable, with too short a blanket.


	19. How to Pick a Dragon's Brain

**(Hiccup)**

 

It felt a bit like waking up from a long slumber, except it was unlike anything Hiccup had ever experienced. He could not open his eyes, yet everything still spun. It seemed as if the whole world was whirling away in all directions. Fast. Very fast. As if his brain (and only his brain) had been placed inside a ball, rolling down a steep mountainside.

His ears also rung with a loud, buzzing noise, like that of a thousand wasps. He could barely hear his own panicked moans over that deafening sound.

He was not actually tumbling; his tactile sense told him so. However, blind as he was, he could not tell up from down. Everything kept spinning, and turning, and spiraling higher and lower and higher again. There was nothing he could do to still his sense of direction. It all seemed to be a very bad dream, but even the strong surge of fright in his chest did not make it stop. If anything, it made it worse.

Hiccup kept flailing his arms around in an attempt to steady himself, but he could tell he was already lying on the ground. His hands touched grass and wood and dirt. Even so, he was overcome by an inexplicable sense of vertigo. Aside from a dull ache in his head, he wasn’t in pain, but something terrifying was happening to him. Part of him wondered if he was going to die, but the most powerful feeling of nausea made him soon forget how scared he was.

Suddenly, Hiccup managed to unglue his eyelids and open his eyes. He saw colors blurring in all directions. He also saw shapes, and what he thought to be the ground, and the sunny sky, and a black figure close by.

_Toothless!_ Hiccup thought. He tried to speak, but as soon as he opened his mouth, he heaved, and threw up on… somewhere. He could not tell where, or how much, since his sense of direction was utter chaos, and the image his eyes perceived kept whirling around as fast as his mind. Everything was rotating upwards now. Hiccup stiffened his muscles, but it was no use.

He observed with utter panic as the world spun and blurred. Whenever the ground replaced the sky in his vision, the image would restore itself, before speeding upwards once more, over, and over, and over again. If he had actually been tumbling, or if the world around him had been truly rotating, he ought to have been able to see behind his back. He couldn’t. It was all inside his head.

Just as the spinning seemed to slow down, and as the loud buzzing faded away, Hiccup started hearing a different, clearer sound, though he paid it no attention at first. He concentrated on stopping the dizziness by the power of his own will. His effort probably made no difference, yet, gradually, the tilting image began to steady, and, soon afterwards, his vision became solid with his skull.

It had finally ceased.

Hiccup lay gasping on the grass of the glade, just outside the small, uncomfortable caves of their island, with his back touching the trunk of an old fallen tree. He sat up straight, and looked around very slowly, afraid that a quick movement of his neck might make the spinning start again. He kept hearing the strange new sound though. It was just like a voice, which didn’t make any sense, considering he was alone on that island. Besides, he could only see Toothless nearby, so he ignored this voice, thinking his mind was still playing tricks with him.

Hiccup looked at the dragon. His black, reptilian face was the picture of absolute fear. In fact, Toothless looked almost as terrified as Hiccup had been feeling just a few moments before.

“What…” Hiccup murmured. His voice was raspy, so he cleared his throat, and leaned to one side to spit the taste of vomit from his mouth. He noticed one of his nostrils was clogged with blood, which was also drying on his hand and clothes.

“What happened to me?” He finally asked, his hands shivering.

He was not expecting an actual response.

_“Sorry! Sorry! Are you all right now? I did not know… I did it wrong. Did I hurt you? I am sorry…. Can you hear the words? Can you understand now? Are you… healthy?”_ The strange voice kept asking all these questions, producing words inside Hiccup’s head.

While it wasn’t really a sound which Hiccup could hear with his ears, somehow, it still had a vibrant tone, like that of a rich, youthful voice. It felt strangely ethereal in nature, but it was nonetheless very clear and well-defined, as if spoken within the walls a small wooden hut. It sounded a bit like the voice of a young adult, with a gentle, male timbre, and a warm pitch. In fact, it seemed comfortably familiar, despite the fact that Hiccup had never perceived anything like it.

He could not describe this only in terms of sound, for the sensation that accompanied those words also had some qualities reminiscent of taste, or smell, or perhaps a tactile feeling, although it was clearly neither of those things. It was as if he had an entirely new sense, with its own set of traits, which vibrated directly inside his head, partly like hearing, but very much separate from the sounds entering his ears. For instance, among other things, he could clearly perceive the direction and distance from which the words came, and also some part of the sentiments that accompanied them, beside the ones he could already infer from the tone. There was a worried… flavor.

Still, the resulting experience was not too different from listening to a voice. After all, he was hearing actual words, though their ‘sound’ emerged from somewhere else inside his head, almost as if he had been thinking about them, but much more vividly, and without his control. In the end, there was no better way to explain this other than: a sound but not a sound, a voice that could not be heard, but only felt.

Hiccup sat still-as-stone as he (for lack of a better word) listened to this friendly voice, asking again and again: _“Are you all right? Can you understand? Hiccup?”_

As soon as he realized that those words inside his head were being accompanied by the Night Fury’s similarly expressive whimpers, grunts, and coos, which Hiccup could still hear separately with his ears, his eyes widened in utter disbelief. He was not just imagining it, he was somehow hearing Toothless speak, and not only that, but the dragon was speaking in his language!

For a very long while, Hiccup remained speechless, forgetting all about his frightful awakening, and gawking at his friend like a frozen critter. So frozen in fact, that he forgot to blink, giving the perfect impression of a brain-damaged bird.

_“Oh no! I broke you!”_ The strange new voice whimpered, and the Night Fury accompanied it with a loud wail of anguish that anyone would have been able to decipher.

“Toothless?” Hiccup murmured. It was all he could say at the moment, not fully believing what was happening. Was Toothless actually talking?

The dragon stopped wailing immediately, both with his vocal chords and this strange, ethereal voice. If Hiccup’s vision was not betraying him again, he could see his friend’s strong limbs almost tremble, first with fear, and now relief.

_“Hiccup! You can hear my words?! Human words, like yours!”_ The voice pleaded.

“I… no… no, this can’t be. Is this _you_ I’m hearing?” Hiccup asked, wiggling his index fingers into his ears in a futile attempt to clear them. He felt silly for even considering the possibility that this wasn’t a dream. “Blink twice if it’s really you who’s talking,” he said, against his better judgement.

Despite the vividness of what Hiccup was experiencing, he was once again utterly stunned when he saw Toothless blink perhaps a dozen times more than requested.

“Odin’s ghost… it _is_ you,” Hiccup hissed under his breath, still sitting motionless on the ground.

The Night Fury jumped back, and half-roared, half-howled at the sky, triumphantly. Then, he began to hop and thrash around the warm sunlit glade in circles, like a gigantic bunny, with his tongue lolling out in blissful celebration. Hiccup had never seen his friend so euphoric, not even when they had fallen in the field of dragon-grass.

When the Night Fury returned before his rider, Hiccup, who was still striving to wrap his head around this turn of events, asked: “How? How can this be?”

Toothless sat on his haunches, visibly trying to contain his enthusiasm, and, as calmly as he could, he explained what he had done to the best of his ability, using this inner voice to talk, although he occasionally warbled and crooned accordingly to what he was saying.

The Night Fury used the human expressions he knew to explain how he had _‘opened’_ Hiccup’s mind, and how all dragons possessed the innate ability to connect to each other’s minds, depending on the dragon’s power. As he ‘talked’, Toothless mixed up a word or two, giving away the fact that he did not speak the language natively. Nonetheless, his fluency was exceptional, especially considering he could not have been taught as a child. Night Furies had to be remarkably intelligent, Hiccup thought, and not just by dragon standards.

Hiccup listened open-mouthed to the dragon’s amazing account, and also to his apology for the risks involved in what he had done. He disregarded the second part though. He was so enthralled by the possibilities, that in his mind no risk could outweigh the benefits of something so utterly extraordinary. In fact, after the dragon was done explaining, Hiccup found himself realizing what was happening all over again, although, this time, the shock he had felt before was replaced by astounding exhilaration.

“Wait a moment,” Hiccup said. “You can freaking talk! _TALK_ for Thor’s sake!” he shouted, stirring some birds in the forest behind him. “You really speak my language! I knew you understood me, but you… you can actually speak! This is… _unbelievable_.” He whispered the last part, and lowered his eyes to the ground to contemplate the grass. Was this all too good to be true?

“Maybe I’m going crazy,” Hiccup murmured as he got up to walk around the small clearing. He felt weak and light-headed, and still a little nauseous, but he needed to move. “Of course I am. I’ve been living alone with a dragon for months. I’m definitely going crazy.” He chuckled, rubbing his forehead, and pacing nervously.

His breathing began to hasten, and, for a while, it seemed as if his lungs were not large enough for him to deal with the situation. He took deeper and deeper breaths, clutching his dirty tunic over his chest with one hand.

Toothless approached, and nudged Hiccup’s forehead with his moist snout in an affectionate attempt to calm him down. It took some time, but it finally started to work. When Hiccup’s breathing evened out, he looked up into the dragon’s large green eyes.

“Toothless, do you realize what this means?”

_“Means?”_ The dragon asked back, cocking his head to one side.

“It means I can actually talk to my best friend!” Hiccup replied through an elated grin, his eyes welling up with deep, heartfelt joy.

As inconceivable as the matter was, Hiccup found himself accepting it all rather easily after that, much to his own dismay. Perhaps it was partly due to the signs, which had begun to accumulate ever since the day of his banishment. However, the most plausible reason was probably much simpler: Hiccup needed this.

While the strange duo’s more regular exchanges had never been entirely one-sided, the lack of actual conversations had started to make Hiccup feel a vague, but nonetheless oppressive loneliness during his exile. On Berk, even though the young heir had never been the paradigm of popularity (at least prior to his successes in the arena), he had always managed to steal a banter or two a day from Gobber, and, sometimes, even his father’s reproaches or the other teens’ scorn helped Hiccup replenish his secret need for human contact. Now, with this newfound, extraordinary ability, that mounting loneliness was finally dispelled.

What followed was one of the most informative afternoons of Hiccup’s youth. It was one thing to study about dragons on Bork’s famous dragon-manual, quite another to actually interview one of the creatures themselves. Hiccup’s thirst for knowledge took quickly over his every other concern, like his worsening headache, his hunger, or the taste of bile in his mouth.

Night Furies might not have been too knowledgeable about the other dragon species, but there were still plenty of interesting things that Toothless knew, and some were more shocking than others.

* * *

 

As he and the dragon began to converse, Hiccup found himself asking a few first questions, the answers of which he already thought he knew, just to make sure he was right. For instance, he was given confirmation that dragons could communicate through sound as well, like Hiccup had begun to learn himself, though it was a much more basic form of interaction, which only allowed simple commands or requests.

This inner voice, to which Hiccup had just been introduced, allowed dragons to accompany their throat-noises with further sounds, meanings, and sentiments, although the complexity of the message depended on each species. Hiccup would still always talk with his normal voice of course, for he had not the faintest idea how to speak inside the Night Fury’s mind. He had yet to discover his own inner voice, an ability which even Toothless could not help unlock, and which may not have been there in the first place. As a result, to any outsider, it would have looked like Hiccup was just talking by himself.

Hiccup also learned that dragons did not use actual languages, like those that humans employed. However, their inner voice was not merely another type of sound, for it had the power to also convey direct thoughts and emotions, like affection, or fear, or enmity. Stronger-minded dragons could even use this power to intimidate and bully weaker ones, though it was not considered noble behavior. Besides, not all dragons were the same, Toothless explained, some were more ancient and smarter, and some were just better with this skill than others, a notion Hiccup did not find surprising, given his experience with the winged creatures.

“So, you’ve actually been understanding and talking to me all this time?” Hiccup finally asked, once he managed to reconcile his skepticism with the current developments, although he was still pacing back and forth. He had been aware of his friend’s ever improving ability to understand him, but, now that he could talk back, it all felt different.

_“Pretty much.”_ Toothless nodded. _“Does this change things?”_ He then asked, sending concern, and warbling with his mouth.

“Well… No, I guess not… I mean yes! Of course it changes things! For the better!” Hiccup yelled, raising his hands to his auburn mop of hair, laughing. “Gods! Toothless, this is awesome!”

Hiccup felt the sudden urge to hug the Night Fury, and then jump around the small glade by the caves, like the dragon had, but he was still dizzy and weak from his rough awakening, so he sat down cross-legged on the soft grass.

“Can other humans do this?” Hiccup asked. It was just one of many questions that sprung into his mind.

_“I do not know. Maybe. But not all dragons can do what I did. And I do not think all humans are so… open-minded? Yes, open-minded.”_

“So… I’m probably the only one,” Hiccup murmured, wondering about the implications.

This was obviously going to change his life. Though, for better or worse, it was unlikely to have an impact on the history of the Archipelago. At least, that’s what he assumed, given his experience with the ingrained beliefs that all Vikings shared regarding the fire-breathing creatures. Besides, one talking Night Fury was unlikely to be enough to change generations of bloodshed; even Hiccup could see this much, especially after his failure to bridge the gap between the two species, when he had last faced a dragon in Berk’s arena.

_“I don’t think there are other humans who can hear a dragon’s voice,”_ The Night Fury acknowledged. _“I never heard about dragons talking to humans, or humans talking to dragons. So, you should be the only one. But still… how should I know? I have not been in every place.”_

“Maybe you are right… wait!” Hiccup exclaimed, overwhelmed by an abrupt surge of curiosity. “Where _have_ you been? What places did you see? No, wait! Where were you born? And are there other Night Furies like you?! Do you have a family? Do you-”

A groan interrupted his flood of questions. Toothless let out a draconic sigh, lowering his ear-plates to the back of his head in mock exasperation. _“When I opened your ear, I forgot how talky you could be.”_

“Sorry,” Hiccup said, sporting a self-conscious smile, and chuckling coyly. He was not really sorry for his inquisitiveness, but he did not want to be rude either. Still, Toothless seemed to know him well enough to understand that he was not going to desist anytime soon, at least not before he had his fill of answers.

_“Night Furies, as you call us, do not have ‘families’,”_ Toothless explained. _“We are… left, just before we hatch, but when we hatch we already know most things, like some birds and snakes, only we know a lot more. What we know depends on our… ‘parents’, as you call them, even if we never meet them. We do not meet others of our kind much either. We always fly alone.”_

Hiccup produced a rather sad humming noise of acknowledgment. “Wait. Does that mean you could always speak the human tongue?”

_“No,”_ Toothless replied casually. _“I mostly learnt by hearing you talk. A lot. But I also knew a little before we met.”_

“What? _How?!_ ” Hiccup nearly howled, his voice bursting with wonder.

_“It was forced on me by... Her. I can’t remember how, but I know she wants the stronger dragons to listen to what the humans say during raids, so if humans say something useful, she can, uhmm… make? No… Plan? Yes, plan. She can plan better raids. I was like… her ears. She could understand what humans said through me… I think. I still do not know how she learned your human tongue.”_

“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” Hiccup protested. He felt his stomach turn with unease. For some reason, he had not expected to hear new information about the war. He suddenly realized there were much more important matters to discuss. “What are you talking about? Who is _Her_?”

_“Oh... right,”_ Toothless said. _“You humans do not know about her. I guess I should explain.”_

And so the dragon did. He described what he knew about the war and the queen, what he remembered about being captured by the her much stronger mind, and about the truth behind the raids, of which humans were entirely unaware, since no Viking ship had ever managed to approach the mist-shrouded shores of Dragon Island. Toothless talked about the dragon-queen’s terrible power over her slaves, about how she would force them to mate as early as possible, in order to keep their eggs hostage throughout the summer raids, so that, even if some dragons did escape her influence during the attacks, they’d still feel compelled to return, lest their offspring be killed. Instead of escaping, they’d always fly right back into the mists, where their minds would then be overpowered by her vile will once again. Toothless also described the queen’s insatiable hunger, which would only increase, year after year, century after century.

When Hiccup finally grasped the magnitude of this astounding discovery, he felt as if drained from within. A mixture of sorrow, anger, and shock fought for his heart’s attention. At the same time, a strange sense of relief washed over him. The dragons were not collectively at fault for the war. There was only _one_ culprit to all of it. If defeated, the war was all going to end. Vikings blamed the whole dragon-species collectively, but they were wrong, and Hiccup had finally found a way to prove it. He had just stumbled upon a piece of information that could turn the whole world upside down, but he did not know what to do. He perceived a sudden, jarring responsibility. Strange, muddled thoughts and ideas began to form into the his mind, but Toothless caught him before he could produce some crazy plan.

_“Do not even think about going to the Dragon Island to see her.”_ Toothless warned firmly, and Hiccup could also feel a crippling sense of fear through their strange connection. _“If I fly close to her again, my mind will be taken, and then we will both die. She will be very angry if she finds out I did not really get killed that night,”_ he continued, imbuing the words with an absolute certainty, but he then hesitated: _“I cannot fight her. She is a more ancient kind than me. I am not… I am not strong enough.”_

“ _You?_ Not strong enough? A _Night Fury?!_ ” Hiccup exclaimed with honest disbelief. He had always thought of Night Furies as the most formidable dragons in all of Midgard; such were the legends surrounding them, and such was his admiration for his friend. Nonetheless, Hiccup’s odd disappointment could not compare with the dragon’s obvious shame on the matter. Hiccup realized this was probably the worst, most sensitive topic for Toothless. Guilt and remorse for his thoughtless comment welled up abundantly in his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, meaning it.

_“It is fine,”_ the dragon replied, failing to conceal his damaged pride. “ _Still, It is not just about her body. It is her mind. But, if you want to talk about size, she is as big as that hole at the top of the mountain.”_ He pointed his snout towards the tip of their island’s lone, dormant volcano, the feet of which housed the nearby caves where they had both spent the last couple of rainy nights.

“What?! _This_ volcano’s mouth?! She’s _THAT_ huge _?!_ ”

The dragon nodded sullenly.

“But… if she’s so big, why doesn’t she just… stomp on Berk, and win the war?” Hiccup asked, still incredulous.

_“The queen does not like to move; she has become too big,”_ Toothless explained. _“I think that if she wanted to fly and make fire, she would need to eat food in the winter too. I do not think there is enough food in the sea and on your islands for her to both fly and live all year. Her huge body would get hungry too quickly, and she would die. Also, she is not stupid. She knows it os better for her to keep some of you alive, so you humans can keep making food for her. This way she can get bigger, without using her strength. To her this was never a ‘war’, like you call it. She is not like an enemy; she is a… what is the word... Curse. She is a curse. You can only fly away.”_

Hiccup, once again, was left speechless. His heart had begun to drum faster in his chest as he absorbed all this new, unbelievable information, the weight of which was starting to overpower him. He could feel nervous shivers under his ribcage. To think that he’d learned all this in a single day; it was too much. He had just heard things no Viking had ever known.

Hiccup thought about finding some way to inform Berk, but he could conceive of no actual solution to this problem, only ways of making it worse. After Toothless’ descriptions, he began to fear that stirring such a horrific foe would only end up in more bloodshed, for dragons and humans alike. How could anyone kill a monster so big?

Hiccup could already imagine the brave Berkians, and especially his father, ordering him to lead them directly to this dragon-queen (assuming they even believed his story), and charging blindly towards a pointless slaughter. He was probably going to get his people’s respect back, but what use was the respect of dead men? Perhaps he ought to try something himself, but what could a _hiccup_ do, that a Night Fury could not have done a thousand times better?

_“Listen, I know you are a curious human,”_ Toothless continued, gauging his rider’s thoughtful expressions, _“but I am never going near that place again. I would rather die eaten by eels.”_

Hiccup did not need to feel the waves of distress emanating from Toothless to know the dragon was dead serious.

“Can’t we stop her somehow?” Hiccup asked hopelessly. Part of him was surprised that he even cared. He was an outcast, banished by his people. Besides, he was safe here; they both were. He had no reason to get involved. However, he still felt the duty to at least ask the question, if only for the humanity’s sake: “Is there really nothing we can do?”

_“Like what?”_ Toothless replied. _“Make her choke on whale’s bones? No. Not with a mind that strong. As soon as I see the mist, I will become... Please.”_ He cooed an imploring sound. _“I have been a... slave… for long enough.”_

The Night Fury spoke the word ‘slave’ with the same agony a man would feel trying to swallow an open pine-cone.

“I understand,” Hiccup said. He realized he could barely comprehend the horror that his friend associated with the experience. He had never seen Toothless look so helpless and terrified, not even when he had found him in Raven Point’s cove, injured, trapped, and unable to catch a single fish from the small pond.

“I promise,” he added reassuringly, agreeing that there was probably nothing they could do, even if Toothless had approved. He also had the feeling he had pried too far into his friend’s past for one day. Yet, on impulse, Hiccup found himself asking another simple, but sensitive question: “How long were you a s-… captive?”

Toothless did not respond for a while. He was looking at the clear afternoon sky, thoughtful. _“I don’t know,”_ he then said, letting out a forlorn hum.

“You don’t? Then… how old _are_ you?”

Toothless shrugged with his wings and shoulders. _“I am not sure. I had seen sixteen winters before I was caught, but my body has grown a bit since then. I still do not know how the years look on Night Fury scales, so I cannot say how long I was a… captive. Maybe ten, maybe a hundred years. Maybe more. But it is better like this. I do not want to know.”_

“A hundred years?! How long do Night Furies live?!” Hiccup asked again, swayed by another wave of curiosity.

_“I think at least five hundred winters. I am not sure, though,”_ Toothless replied, trying to sound encouraging, but to whom, Hiccup could not tell.

Hiccup weighed the numbers in his head. He considered pointing out the fact that the notorious ‘Offspring of Lightning and Death’ was known to occasionally appear in raids since long before his father was born, but he quickly changed his mind. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would feel like to have so many years of one’s life stolen in that way. If Toothless did not want to know, then he was not going to say anything. Besides, there could very well have been other Night Furies under the queen’s control in the past. Hiccup tried to find something heartening to say instead:

“If you only remember sixteen winters, then sixteen years is your age. If that’s how old you feel, it doesn’t matter how old your body is. Right?”

Toothless nodded slowly, and offered a brief gummy smile in return, but he seemed otherwise unwilling to linger on the topic of his age. Hiccup was happy to avoid the subject as well, especially the part about their differing lifespans. He knew it would come up someday, but did not mind postponing that gloomy conversation to another time, in some distant future.

Despite the air of unease, Hiccup felt the need to learn about one last thing, partly out of concern for himself, but mostly because the story he had just been told did not involve just any dragon, but his very best friend.

“Toothless, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he opened, hesitantly, “but… what is it like? Having your mind… taken.”

_“You do not need to worry,”_ the dragon said. _“It is too hard for a dragon to enter a human mind, even an ‘open’ one like yours, even just to talk. I can only do it with you because you are letting me. And it is still very hard. Human minds are just too different. If you keep yours closed, no dragon will be able to feel your inner ear, let alone control you. Even the queen. I am sure of this.”_

“Oh,” Hiccup murmured, partly relieved, partly encouraged, but also rather unsatisfied with the answer, for that was not what he had asked.

Toothless noticed it, and, before his rider could complain, he exhaled and asked: _“How do you say when you are choking, but with water?”_

“You mean drowning?” Hiccup suggested.

_“Yes. It is like drowning_ ,” the dragon continued, _“only it never stops, and you never die, even if you want to. You cannot die, because you are breathing, but it still feels like there is water around, and the water is dark, like squid... how you say… ink. You cannot see. Maybe sometimes you can… a little bit, but it is not…”_ He looked pensive for a moment. _“I do not have the words to describe it.”_

“And you were conscious all the time?!” Hiccup probed further with renewed concern, though this time it was only for his friend.

_“Yes… and no. When the queen is in your mind, you do not know time,”_ Toothless explained. _“You do not feel if you sleep or not. You do not know day or night. You just… drown. You still feel pain, and also hungriness. That I know because the queen forgets to make us eat during the last raids, so she can eat more before she rests. We are weaker in those raids. That is how you hit me. Yes, your bola-thing-weapon was good, but I was also slower that night, because my body was hungry. I am glad she sent me to attack anyway.”_

As soon as the dragon mentioned the weapon Hiccup had both built and used that fateful night, Hiccup’s heart jumped in his chest. He was aware that Toothless knew the identity of the one responsible for the loss of his flight. Still, he had never expected the day would come when he’d have to actually discuss what he had done. Hiccup felt guilt rise anew regarding the old matter, mostly because he had never really apologized. Sure, he had tried his best to make up for it with his craftsmanship, but he had never said the words.

_Is it too late to do it now?_ He wondered, worrying about his friend’s response.

“I’m really sorry about your tail,” Hiccup muttered gloomily, looking down at the strands of grass he was weaving between nervous fingers.

The dragon’s face softened. _"I know. But... I never blamed you. Maybe at first, but not for long. You saved me that night, Hiccup."_

The confession instantly loosened the stiffness within Hiccup's chest. He could almost taste the sincerity accompanying those words, in such a way that it made his eyes sting.

_“Better one day of freedom, than a lifetime as a slave,”_ Toothless continued, “ _and you have given me much more than one day. You also make me fly again, so you do not have to apologize. I forgave you long ago.”_

Overcome with relief, Hiccup let out a brief hum of acknowledgement, but he did not look up to the dragon’s face, afraid his friend would notice the tears welling up in his own eyes.

“I’m still sorry about it…” he said, “and about your past. I’m sorry you had to go through all that, and… and… I just… I didn’t know.”

Hiccup felt the sudden urge to sob. He felt both terribly sad and amazingly happy, and, to top it all off, he was being overwhelmed by all this new, mind-boggling knowledge. Toothless approached him, and brushed the crown of his head along his shoulder, letting out a soft purr. Hiccup could not resist. Still sitting, he raised his arms, and embraced the Night Fury’s neck as tightly as his muscles would allow.

_“Why are you doing that?”_ Toothless asked with some dismay when they broke the hug.

“Doing what?”

_“That thing with your eyes. I do not like it.”_

“Oh… you mean crying? Sorry,” Hiccup replied, lowering his gaze again. “I just… It’s so much to take in. Everything. I never knew you suffered like that, and… I just… I don’t know. I can be a crybaby sometimes.” Hiccup admitted, chuckling, and drying his tears with his sleeves, sniffing the strange mixture of emotions away. He then smiled at the dragon. “There.”

Toothless smiled his toothless smile in return.

_“Now tell me this,”_ the dragon began, finally changing the subject to ask a question of his own. _“Who are these ‘gods’ you mention so often?”_

Hiccup breathed in deeply. “Oh boy,” he said under his breath, leaning back on his hands. He realized he could not have been given a question on a topic he was less knowledgeable about. He had always felt that the more he heard people talk about the gods, the less he would understand. Besides, Gothi (the only authority Hiccup trusted on the matter) had become mute, so he was not particularly confident even regarding what little he knew. Nonetheless, he tried to explain the basics about Odin and Thor, Freya and Loki, and about Asgard and Valhalla.

Alas, Hiccup had to interrupt his jumbled lesson quite abruptly, as he began to bleed again from his nose. He failed to notice it at first, but the Night Fury intervened immediately.

_“We should stop,”_ Toothless cut in. _“Your brain is not used to this. You must rest now.”_

Before he could complain, Toothless’ presence left his mind, and Hiccup finally felt a headache ebb away as well. He realized he had been ignoring the pain all this time, enthused as he was in his first ever conversation with a dragon.

Hiccup decided to heed to his friend’s suggestion. After happily gathering his things from the cave, they both made their way through the sun-warmed forest, towards their camp near the beach, where their other dragon-friends lazed, and played, and puttered around.

As soon as they arrived, Hiccup saw Toothless cast a peculiar look towards Sharpshot, the greenest and friendliest of the three Terrible Terrors with whom they shared the island. For a very brief moment, the little dragon appeared strangely unsettled, and, for the first time since their arrival on that island, it seemed like Sharpshot was feeling uneasy before the Night Fury’s presence.

It all lasted a mere instant, but Hiccup’s perceptive eyes caught the exchange. The fleeting look in Toothless’ eyes seemed oddly familiar, although Hiccup had never observed it on a dragon’s face before. It was a haughty look, somehow similar to the smug look some of the older boys on Berk would offer to all the other guys on the island, after returning from the forest one day, claiming they had managed to get intimate with a girl. Their look said: _‘That’s right, I’m a man now. I’m better than you,’_ with all the self-satisfaction in the world.

Hiccup had seen it happen a few times among the older boys, for he occasionally observed their interactions from afar. He used to do this just in case he could learn how to be more like them, in the desperate hope to become better accepted by his own peers, or perhaps in the hopeless attempt to one day get intimate with a girl himself. Alas, he had never learnt their secret.

In fact, Hiccup had never even kissed anyone up to that point in his life, unlike almost everyone else he knew (or had known), except for… He could not actually remember hearing any talk of Astrid Hofferson ever kissing someone. Not the deaf farmer’s son, like he’d heard of Ruffnut, nor Helga’s youngest daughter, like he had about both Snotlout and Tuffnut. (Quite the little scandal there.) Even Fishlegs had once shyly boasted about receiving a kiss on the lips from some trader’s daughter, when they were ten.

Hiccup was again far behind his peers in that strangely relevant sort of competition, but perhaps Astrid was too. Actually, had ever a rumor come to his ears about Astrid kissing someone, Hiccup would have certainly been able to remember so, and painfully too. The mere fact that he had never heard anything of the sort made him hopeful that maybe, just maybe, _he_ was still the one destined to steal the fierce maiden’s first kiss.

He was, of course, shamefully aware of how stupid a hope that was. After all, being an outcast, leagues away from the girl of his fantasies, was only the smallest of the obstacles towards that impossible dream.

Despite the vastly different circumstances, Hiccup found it very amusing to see Toothless sneakily brag about their new connection in that familiar way, especially considering it was a ‘competition’ between a mighty Night Fury and a much smaller Terror. Hiccup had begun to realize that Toothless was quite the jealous beast, and he had also become aware of the playful feud between the two dragons regarding the affections of the lone human. Still, Hiccup could not help giggling at their bickering, partly because it was entertaining, but also because it was rather flattering.

When younger, most of the other Berkian kids used to fight for the privilege of _not_ having Hiccup on their team, whenever they played tug of war, or some similar game. Having someone fight over his affection was therefore strangely gratifying. Besides, Hiccup knew Toothless would never abuse his power over the little Terror. He was actually polite, or perhaps just too proud to consider Sharpshot a worthy opponent. Either way, Hiccup found it very comical, so he never intervened.

He still tried to share his attentions equally amongst all his dragon-friends. The three Terrors, the Zippleback, and even the shy Monstrous Nightmare, they had all grown friendlier and friendlier towards him, and Hiccup had begun to slowly think of them as members of his own new family. Of course, Hiccup would never fly on top, or sleep underneath any other dragon’s wings. Toothless was the only one who could claim those privileges, and Hiccup always made sure to pamper him the most.

Nonetheless, once Hiccup settled himself again near the border between forest and beach, by his unfinished wooden shelter, he attempted to reach out and listen to the inner voices of the other dragons. Unfortunately, he could not hear anything. Only Toothless knew how to bridge the gap between their minds, and even he seemed to find it a difficult task. If Hiccup ever wanted to perceive the other dragons’ minds, he would need to learn how to break that barrier himself, assuming it was even possible.

In spite of this barrier however, Hiccup did not feel any less close to his other scaly friends, with whom he decided to spend the rest of the afternoon. He hadn’t seen much of them during the last couple of rainy days, which had forced Hiccup to find shelter in the caves inland, where dragons had no particular interest in venturing. It was sunny now though, and the sand was warm, and so was the salty breeze.

So, Hiccup ate, and played with Sharpshot, and tickled Bolt, whilst wearing Twitch, the smallest of the Terrors, as a yellow, winged hat. Then, he chased Khnut (the Zippleback), and spent some time scratching the ‘Shymare’s’ neck to her satisfaction, which was signaled through a delighted lick on Hiccup’s face. All the while, Toothless watched contentedly, his jealousy now much abated, waiting for the human’s mind to rest, before their next amazing conversation.

* * *

 

The days passed merrily for all the fire-breathing creatures on this forgotten island of the Viking seas, and even more so for one non-fire-breathing creature living there: namely, Hiccup.

Summer had finally peaked, and this was the only time in the Archipelago when one could say it was actually warm. The pleasant season lasted for months, in theory, but, on Berk, there was but a delicious handful of weeks when Hiccup no longer had to shiver his way to the outhouse in the chill of morning, in order to release his night’s water. South as he was now, this span of weeks seemed to last slightly longer than it would have on his native island.

Hiccup spent most of these delightful days working on the construction of his wooden shelter, and, each time his mind was rested enough, he’d pause his work to jump into another eager chat with Toothless, until he was finally able to keep his inner ear open without getting a headache, a nosebleed, or occasionally fainting (though that had only happened twice).

Hiccup noticed that a quick dip into the temperate summer sea would always make him feel better after their prolonged conversations, and especially after his carpenter’s work, for the sea would help cool off his body and wash away the sweat. In fact, Hiccup realized how much he actually loved swimming, particularly on this island, where nobody was going to mock him for not taking off his smallclothes, as was instead the norm for such activities among Berkians, male and female both. Even on this deserted island, inhabited only by a handful of dragons and himself, Hiccup did not feel daring enough to swim completely bare.

After his pleasant swims, Hiccup would always go back to building his house: sawing, hacking, tying, gathering stone, and wood, and dirt. He had decided to reuse the hole in the ground near that particularly flat patch of forest by the beach (where he had found the buried crate of Berserker supplies), to avoid the need to dig a hole himself for the main wooden pillar of the structure, the shape of which resembled more closely that of a tent, rather than a normal Viking abode.

It was easier to build this way, for Hiccup would merely need to tie the slimmer logs together, and then lean them like many rafters on a single, long, central ridge, giving the section of the shelter a triangular shape. He then planned to cover the sides and back with dirt and leaves for insulation, and use the heavy sail-canvas he had found amongst the Berserker supplies for the entrance, not unlike a Viking tent. Hiccup had also found a way to embed a makeshift stone fireplace to one side, near the center of the space, in such a way to release the smoke outside, but still covered by a small flat roof, which would keep the rain from falling on the fire.

Building a normal house, with regular planks of wood, walls, a roof, and a central hearth, would have been far too difficult and time-consuming for a single thirteen-year-old boy, no matter how ingenious. Even so, Hiccup had never toiled as much as he was now. Despite his blacksmith’s callouses, his hands were constantly blistered and raw. He earned scrapes and cuts on every limb, and, fearing infection more then pain, he made quick use of Gothi’s salve.

Of course, Hiccup had never enjoyed feeling pain, unlike truer Vikings did, at least according to their boastful claims. Yet, despite the dull aches, cuts, splinters, and sore muscles, for the first time in his life, Hiccup felt like these were all good pains. He appreciated their meaning. He was proud of the work behind them. These pains gave him purpose.

At last, after nearly four months of exile, Hiccup had found the things he missed the most: a purpose, a confidant, a family, and, soon, an actual house too.

Things were finally looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phenomenon Hiccup experienced as he woke at the beginning of the chapter is an attempt at describing (with some artistic license) an episode of cervical vertigo. I hope I've managed to render the idea somewhat effectively.
> 
> I also hope you've found my interpretation of Hiccup's first conversation with Toothless, and my take on the mechanics of the war, if not interesting, at least plausible.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> EXTRA NOTE 1 (HICCUP’S SHELTER): I’ve posted a 3D rendering of the design for Hiccup’s shelter on my deviantart. There is also a copy on my tumblr blog. Links to both are always on my profile page.
> 
> EXTRA NOTE 2 (TOOTHLESS’S AGE): I’m going to disregard Valka’s comment in the second movie about Toothless being the same age as Hiccup. Mostly, because it’s not explained how she knows this for certain. Has she met other Night Furies? And if so, why doesn’t it come up? I’m sure Hiccup would have been very interested. If she hasn’t, then how can she be sure? Not all dragons have those little fins that she flicks as she says: “He’s your age!”
> 
> It’s also an unnecessary coincidence, which doesn’t add to the story in the least. I tend to dislike such contrivances, so I just gave Toothless an age that I felt would be consistent with his experiences. Not that it matters much, but I expect some might feel conflicted about my canon-divergence on this little point, so I wanted to clarify my position.


	20. The Wingman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theme of dragon mating will be fairly present in this chapter, but, as a T-rated story, there will be no graphic descriptions. It will be mostly an analysis on Hiccup's thoughts on the subject and perhaps some slightly embarrassing but innocent conversations. 
> 
> Dragons are animals too, so, for the sake of realism, I found it hard to ignore the possibility that some awkward (but natural) events might occur, which in turn gave me the chance to explore a bit of Hiccup’s own attitude towards sexuality in general. I have done my best to address these matters with both the appropriate tact and subtlety.

**(Hiccup)**

 

“Are those feathers?”

_“Where?”_

“On your mouth. You have…” Hiccup hesitated, “did you eat a _raven?_ ”

_“Should I not eat the black birds?”_

“I don’t know,” Hiccup replied. “I mean… they are Odin’s birds. But even so, poor thing.” He had always liked ravens, especially since they never chased him around the village to peck his ankles, unlike hens and roosters often did on Berk. In fact, he did not recall ever being bitten by a raven, something very few Vikings could claim.

_“Fiiine...”_ Toothless pouted. He looked thoughtful for a bit, then made a heaving noise, then a second and a third.

“Oh, no no no, I didn’t mean-” Hiccup cried imploringly, but it was too late.

Toothless regurgitated the black, still bloody carcass of the bird, and spat it on the ground, close to where Hiccup gathered his building tools. It was a considerably more gruesome sight than the occasional regurgitated fish.

“Ugh! That’s awful! Why would you barf it up?!” Hiccup protested, looking away from the half-chewed bundle of feathers.

_“You said you did not want me to eat the black birds.”_ The dragon explained, lowering his long ears to the sides in a display of remorse.

“Yes, but I didn’t mean you should barf it up!”

The dragon sighed and rolled his eyes, as his remorse slowly transformed into annoyance. He then leaned down, and slurped back the little carcass from the ground.

“What are you… Eeew! _Toothless!?_ ” Hiccup yelped again, wincing at the sight. “You ate it back?!”

_“Will you make up your mind already?! Eat the raven. Do not eat the raven. Just chose one, will you?”_

Hiccup hid his disgusted face in his hands. “Do whatever you want. I’ll just go throw up,” he said, then walked away. He did not throw up of course, but sometimes Hiccup wished the dragon would behave a little less like… well… a dragon. Some of the Night Fury’s more animalistic behaviors were certainly cute and charming, but others not so much.

After grabbing a hatchet, Hiccup finally returned to building his shelter by the forest’s tree-line. He was determined to finish the small abode before summer’s end. So far, he had managed to make the wooden perimeter of the house’s floor, and, with the Night Fury’s help, he had also raised the main wooden pillar, along with the two couples of crossed rafters at the two ends of the tent-like structure, upon which he had placed the central ridge. He was now making the sloped wooden walls, which was the most tedious part, though it was also the simplest.

The three Terrible Terrors enjoyed helping as well, by bringing Hiccup the tools he required when he asked for them. The small dragons had been easy to train, even Twitch, the yellow one, who was the clumsiest and smallest of the three. Khnut (the Zippleback) had tried to help too, but the two capricious heads caused more damage than anything else, whilst Dreyri (the rather timid Monstrous Nightmare) would always flee at the sound of the beating hammer.

As the weeks passed, Hiccup noticed, the more his house came together, the more his other belongings came apart. Some of his clothes looked more ragged by the day. He did try to wash and mend his limited garments as often as possible. However, he had never washed or stitched a pair of breeches in his life. Learning to do so, although just a minor drawback of his exile, had been surprisingly hard to accept. At least he found he was quite apt at sewing, a job that was generally entrusted to the women back on Berk, which was all the more reason why Hiccup was glad there was no one there to see him as he fumbled with the needles and thread he had found.

Most tattered of all, though, were Hiccup’s boots, of which there had been no extra pair within the hidden Berserker crate, and which were impossible to repair. He had tried to stop wearing them most of the time, but, when he worked, he would regularly injure his feet without protection. The boots were now held up with rope, and so was one of the two pairs of breeches that actually fit him.

Thus, one midsummer morning, Hiccup decided to visit the island of Thargran, in order to replace his old boots with a newer pair, which would hopefully last him the winter. As usual, Hiccup asked Toothless to stay hidden deep within the forest of the large island, while he sneaked into the very southern-looking Viking village for the third time thus far.

It was not hard to go unnoticed in the bustling streets of Thargran, but Hiccup still walked with focused ears and tense muscles, ready to sprint in case some of Spitelout’s men were on the island. He had checked the crowded docks first, to see if there were any Berkian ships or boats. Hiccup recognized the crest drawn upon one ship’s sail; a stylized boar’s head with black tusks. It was Balheim’s crest, which, while not surprising, was still a slightly unnerving sight. Fortunately, all other crests seemed to be relatively foreign to him.

Regardless, Hiccup did not think it wise to prolong his visit in that village, but the place was bigger than Berk, and he had to find either an actual leather-worker, or a trader of general goods, without asking around of course, for he did not wish to attract attention. Eventually, Hiccup found the latter, near the northernmost side of the docks. The trader had set up three stalls there, each shaded by canvas awnings bearing rare, flashy colors.

Hiccup looked for any signs of recognition on the merchant’s face, hoping he knew nothing about Hiccup’s bounty. Fortunately, the man did not seem interested in his young patron. Hiccup ended up buying the smallest pair of boots he could find. They were new and unused, so he had to give two whole silver coins in trade, but he did not haggle. He knew by now that it was not too bad a price for a pair of new leather boots, especially for one that fit him. Besides, he still had a few more silver coins and a dozen coppers, since, the last time he had been on Thargran, he had managed to sell the two rusty seaxes he had found in the buried crate, so money was not as pressing an issue as it had been during his stay in Old Balheim.

After a long flight east, Hiccup and Toothless landed back on their own island, on the sandy beach where they and their dragon friends spent most of the time. To Hiccup’s surprise, the other dragons were gone, all but Dreyri, who was lounging contentedly under the late afternoon sun.

Hiccup dismounted from the Night Fury’s back, and left his old boots with his other belongings, after wearing his new ones.

“Where do you think they went?” He asked, chewing on some leftover bread, whilst contemplating his new boots.

Toothless approached the young female Nightmare, sniffed her, warbled something, after which she replied with a dismissive puff of smoke, then he went back to Hiccup.

_“I… I don’t know,”_ The dragon said, hesitating somewhat. Then he proposed eagerly: _“Let’s go look for them. I should be able to follow their scent.”_

Hiccup accepted, smiling as he mounted upon the saddle once again, ready for another pleasant flight in the warm summer air. He relished the feeling of flying this time of day, and especially this time of year, for he knew how much harder it was going to be when the winter’s freezing winds attempted to bite his nose and ears off.

They flew with the sun on their backs again for a while, piercing the occasional cloud, before Hiccup began to grow worried.

“Are you sure we’re on the right track? Maybe they’ve already returned.”

_“I am,”_ Toothless replied. Hiccup felt some unease in the dragon’s inner voice. _“The truth is… I think I know where they went.”_

“Really?” Hiccup asked, wondering why his friend hadn’t said anything. “Where did they go?”

_“Promise not to get mad?”_

“What? Why?”

Toothless seemed to be gathering his thoughts. _“We have actually been following them to a nesting island. It is now the season when dragons make hatchlings.”_

Hiccup sat up straight against the wind, taken aback by the unexpected revelation. “Oh,” was all he managed to say at first, as the implications started pouring into his mind.

_“It is not much further now. Can we go too?”_ Toothless asked expectantly, but also rather nervously, which was quite uncommon for the Night Fury.

Hiccup found himself staggered by the honest request. “Huh? Oh! Uhmm… yeah. Sure, we… we can go. I mean… why not.” He agreed tentatively, glad that his friend could not see his reddening face and ears.

Hiccup felt very strange. He did not know what else to say or what to do. In fact, he seemed suddenly unable to remember how to sit properly upon the saddle, such was his sudden discomfort.

_“If you do not want to go, we do not have to go. We can still turn back.”_ Toothless cooed and glanced back at Hiccup with genuine apprehension. _“I’m sure I’ll survive one summer without… how do you say exactly when you get on top of another dragon, and put y-”_

“Toothless!” Hiccup barked with admonishment.

_“What? At least tell me how to say the word.”_

Hiccup took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled: “You mean ‘sex’, I suppose…  or ‘mating’, for you dragons.”

_“Yes. That. I really need to do that. I never waited so much when I was still free from the queen, and the call is hard to ignore these days. I did not say anything before, but I have been feeling the call for almost a whole moon,”_ Toothless explained, before adding: _“Can we really go then? Please?”_

Hiccup considered the request, yet, try as he might, he could not imagine saying no to his friend. He had no right to deny him this favor, so he quickly fought against his unease regarding the topic, and patted the side of the dragon’s neck.

“You’ve always been there for me, bud’. I guess I can be your wingman for one day. I owe you this much.”

Toothless purred gratefully, then roared into the wind, giving Hiccup the briefest signal to brace himself, before making a celebratory barrel-roll in the sky, after which, he picked up the speed.

“So, is this why you’ve been chasing ravens in the forest for no reason?” Hiccup asked, a couple of wingbeats later, after considering how frustrated the Night Fury must have felt about his natural urges. The question was not really driven by curiosity, but it was an attempt to lift the lingering air of unease, which, Hiccup felt, was somehow his own fault.

_“I don’t know,”_ Toothless replied coyly. _“Maybe.”_

Not for the first time, Hiccup found himself realizing that Toothless was, in fact, an animal like any other. Hiccup tried to think of himself a bit like a farmer. After all, it was a farmer's duty to let the cattle breed each year; a development, the performance of which, as Hiccup knew very well, even the chief of the village had to know all about. On the other hand, Hiccup could not think of Toothless as anything akin to a farm animal, especially now that the dragon could talk. This made him feel as baffled about the situation, as he was uncomfortable. Still, as his friend’s only means of flight, he understood it was his responsibility to acknowledge and support the dragon’s animalistic nature.

_Oh, who am I kidding… I’m just an animal too,_ Hiccup thought, adding a resigned sigh, as he remembered that embarrassing awakening of his, not ten days past. It had not been the first time such a thing had happened to him, but this didn’t make Hiccup any less confused about his own strange urges, even though he was aware enough of their meaning.

_Am I no different than a yak in rut? Are all humans just like animals, only smarter? Even a hiccup like myself?_

As they flew, Hiccup contemplated such matters for a while, before Toothless interrupted his perplexed musings.

_“Sorry for not telling you where we were going. I was afraid you would say no, seeing how you never talk of these things. Even after that morning…”_ he hesitated, _“…when we slept in the cave.”_

Hiccup felt his face flush anew, nearly to the point of burning. The far-too-warm summer wind washing his face was helping not at all.

“What?!” Hiccup almost squealed, pretending not to understand, for it was the only reaction that came to mind. “I don’t… What are you talking about?” He had been expecting Toothless to know what had happened of course; how could he not? Yet, he had hoped the Night Fury would have somehow forgotten about the little accident. He had actually wished to forget about it himself, since he had never felt more embarrassed in his life.

Alas, when Toothless looked knowingly back at his rider, Hiccup had no choice but to accept the fact, and confront his shame on the matter.

“I’m really sorry about that,” he murmured under his breath, though he knew Toothless could still hear him. “I didn’t mean to gross you out… I’m just… I’m sorry.”

_“Why sorry?”_ The dragon replied confidently, producing a reassuring purr. _“It just means this must be your first… how you said… ‘mating season’, right? You must find a mate too.”_

“What? _Me?_ No, there’s no way- I mean, no need...” He mumbled nervously. “Anyway, you don’t have to worry about me. It won’t happen again.”

_“Really? Is mating season already ended for humans?”_

“Humans don’t really have a… ‘mating season’,” Hiccup pointed out, feeling surprisingly encouraged by his friend nonchalance on this awkward topic of conversation. Truth be told, despite Gobber bringing up such matters as material for humor with disconcerting regularity, Hiccup had never felt at ease talking about such things, especially when it came to answering questions about himself, and thus giving away his blatant lack of experience.

_“You do not have a season? Then how do humans know when it is time to ‘sex’?”_ Toothless asked as casually as if he were talking about the weather.

“Well, it’s…uh…” Hiccup rubbed his forehead, “anytime, I think.”

_“So you are going to need to look for females ALL YEAR?!”_ The dragon asked with sudden worry, producing noises of exasperation. _“This means we will have to keep going to a village continuously from now on! This is going to be really dangerous.”_

“No, no,” Hiccup interjected quickly, forcing a chuckle. “No need for that. No village. Don’t worry. I’ll… manage.” He tried his best to sound more reassuring than ashamed.

_“Oh! Are we going to steal a female from a village?”_

“ _What?!_ No! Of course not! Are you crazy?! I’ll just… manage. Without kidnapping anyone. Without… you know… a _‘female’._ ”

_Not that any Viking girl would ever let me near her anyway, even a captive one,_ Hiccup added in his mind, feeling some of the bitterness of disillusionment, which used to visit his thoughts regularly as he was growing up on Berk.

_“How?”_ Toothless asked, conveying an unwarranted amount of interest and concern on the matter. Was Toothless messing with him? There had been a strange, eager look on his face as he asked the question, but his curiosity felt real. It was hard to tell sometimes; their mental connection allowed for ambiguity.

Hiccup sighed again. “I’ll take care… you know… by _myself?_ ”

_“But how??”_ The dragon insisted. His concern was feeling less and less authentic.

“I’ll… uhmm…. Oh, come on! Please don’t make me talk about this stuff!” Hiccup whined in protest.

_“Alright, alright,”_ Toothless said quickly, casting a teasing glance backwards, grinning with his teeth only half-unsheathed.

The dragon _was_ messing with him! Hiccup realized this, and glowered at the back of the Night Fury’s head, slapping one of the dragon’s slender ear-plates. At the same time, Hiccup had to purse his lips to suppress the sudden urge to laugh. There was just something about Toothless trying to tease him, that Hiccup found utterly amusing, and familiar, and maybe even comforting.

_“Suit yourself,”_ Toothless added, shrugging mid-flight, whilst attempting to grin as a human. _“But I still think we should find you a mate too someti-”_

“Bud’?” Hiccup cut him off.

_“Yes?”_

“Shut up.” Hiccup tried to sound serious and insulted, but he was still hiding a smirk. He kept silent for a while, hoping the wind would wash away the heat from his face, before he remembered that he was about to visit an actual dragon nesting island. This meant he was about to meet lots of new, free dragons. It was a fascinating prospect, which made him suddenly very excited about something.

“Toothless! Wait! Does the fact that you want to go to this island mean there will be other Night Furies?” Hiccup asked expectantly.

_“Not likely, no,” the dragon said._

“Oh… Then how… how will you… you know…?”

_“What?”_

“If there aren’t other Night Furies… what are you going to do?”

_“The same as always,”_ Toothless replied with barefaced conviction. _“I will find some other dragon.”_

“Really? Do dragons do that? But then… I never saw any half-breeds, like with dogs.”

_“There are half-breeds, actually. They are just very rare,”_ Toothless explained. _“I am not sure when it happens, but dragons sometimes mate with different dragons anyway. It is fun, but they do not always make hatchlings. At least I do not think Night Furies can make hatchlings without other Night Furies, but that happens no more than two or three times in a Night Fury’s life. Dragons like me prefer being alone most of the time. We only meet other Night Furies by chance, and if it is mating season, we might mate. But the world is big, so chances are very low. That is why there is so few of us. I have actually never met another Night Fury.”_

“Never?!” Hiccup let out a disappointed moan. “Didn’t you ever get lonely being alone all the time? When you were free I mean.”

_“Night Furies do not get lonely,”_ Toothless claimed proudly. _“Anyway, it is better that we do not meet each other too much. Trust me.”_

“Really? Why is that?”

The dragon warbled absently for a bit. Then, without answering the question, he produced a celebratory yowl: _“Look!”_

Hiccup had not been looking ahead as they talked, but when he lifted his eyes from the dragon, he saw it too. They had finally reached the island.

It was quite small, smaller than Hiccup had expected, but that was not what amazed him. There was a volcano on its eastern side. It too was very small, almost stunted compared to the one on their own island, and to all the others he had seen so far in his travels, yet, unlike the others, this one was active. Hiccup gasped as they approached from above. He saw the wide, bright-red cauldron of molten rock, trapped in a black crater, but for two cracks in the perimeter. High as he was, Hiccup could already feel the waves of heat radiating from it.

This was the first live volcano he had ever seen. He had only heard stories about the rivers of liquid stone flowing and burning their way down the sides of such mountains, but, now, he could actually see them. He was probably the only living Berkian who had. Still, there were only two streams of lava, narrow, slow, and rather harmless-looking, but they were glowing as hot steel on an anvil, and, by the cliff from which they spilled over into the sea, huge columns of white steam rose, accompanying the smoke of the volcano’s mouth high into the sky.

Steam rose also from some of the strangely-colorful pools of water on the western side of the islet. Orange and yellow near their edges, they became greener and then blue towards their deeper centers. Some large, some too small to be even called lakes, they bubbled lazily by the feet of the mountain, releasing the smell of sulfur into the air.

The eastern side of the volcano was trailed by steep, black cliffs, so Toothless circled the flatter planes extending towards them as they approached from the west, near the boiling pools. Despite being also trailed by cliffs, this far-more-welcoming side of the island did have some sparse vegetation, since it was safe from the lava. Nonetheless, beside a few lonely patches of grass, only greyish-green bushes, and some occasional saplings, grew on the otherwise bare land, which was made in equal parts of dark sand, yellow dust, and red rock. This place was a sight to behold.

Hiccup’s amazement didn’t end there though. Hundreds were the dragons he saw crawling around and coloring the landscape. A few of them were even of species Hiccup had never seen before. It was nice to see there were still so many dragons in the Archipelago living free from the queen’s clutches. Some of them were dancing in the air, amongst wails for attention and challenging roars, performing complicated tricks and twirls to show off their skill. Others circled dangerously close to the volcano’s lip, perhaps to flaunt their resistance to heat, or more likely their courage.

At a closer inspection, not all dragons were courting. Some were preparing nests for their eggs, using stones or dry shrubs. Others were flying away with their newfound mates, perhaps to settle somewhere else. And others still, much to Hiccup’s unease, were shamelessly engaged in mating across the island. Fortunately, some appeared more reserved than others about the activity, seeking relative isolation. A futile struggle though, since there was no actual place to hide amongst the far too scanty undergrowth.

Although not completely barren, this land had no wildlife, except for flocks of small seabirds. This was clearly a place for winged creatures only; a landscape so alien, that the Hiccup would have never thought possible in the realm of Midgard. He felt as fascinated being there, as he felt extraneous. This was no place for humans.

Hiccup was so utterly stunned, he didn't even notice that Toothless had already landed in an empty clearing near the southern sea-cliffs. The dragon shook his back impatiently, beckoning his rider to get down.

_“Can you take the saddle and fin?”_ He asked. _“I do not want it to get damaged. Things should not get too rough, but some male dragons might get involved, and they are usually aggressive this time of year, so… you never know.”_

Hiccup tried to picture what expectations crowded his friend’s mind, but he quickly decided he’d rather not know the details. He dismounted, and freed Toothless from his many contraptions. As he did so, other dragons started to appear in the clearing, peeking and sniffling in the Night Fury’s direction. They stalked closer, curiously.

“So… I’ll just be going then,” Hiccup announced, gesturing awkwardly with a thumb over his shoulder as he backed away. “Come find me when you are… you know… done.”

Toothless grumbled questioningly. _“You cannot go. It is too dangerous; I said other males are aggressive this time of year, especially in a place like this. You stay here.”_

“ _Here?_ ” Hiccup exclaimed, wearing a dismayed grimace. “I can’t stay here while you court another female. It’s not right.”

_“Oh, I do not have to do ‘court’, if that means what I think it means. I do not need some special mating dance. I am a Night Fury. Some dragons admire the rare ones like me. They will just come for my scent. Dragons chosen by a Night Fury are liked better, so they have better chances with stronger males or females of their own kind later. They usually just come to mate, so they can get my scent, and then they leave.”_

“Ah. That’s sort of… obscenely… convenient,” Hiccup murmured suspiciously. Then suddenly yelled: “Wait, _WHAT?!_ I’m not staying for _that!_ I’m _definitely_ not staying for _that!_ ”

_“But I cannot let you out of my sight. It is dangerous!”_ The dragon retorted, this time conveying true concern through their connection.

“Oh, _come_ _on,_ ” Hiccup pleaded, his shoulders drooping forward.

_“Do not worry, I am not shy,”_ Toothless said reassuringly (or was it mockingly?), _“but you do not have to watch,”_ he continued, _“just stay where I can see you. And do not get close to other dragons; you do not want to repeat what happened when you went to hunt alone on Old Balheim. This time I will be too busy to save you.”_ The last part he affirmed in a clearly teasing tone.

Hiccup hid his face in his hands for a second time that day, producing a low moan of "Odin help me.” He then sighed. “Fine. Is that cliff close enough?" He asked, gesturing towards the sea.

Toothless nodded quickly. _"Just do not fall off."_

"I make no promises." Hiccup muttered in a hushed, resigned voice, after grabbing the bundle of saddle and prosthetic fin.

He began to leave, but turned around, feeling the sudden need to say something witty or sarcastic, like _‘_ you owe me for this’ or ‘don’t have too much fun’ or anything that could have shown he was not as uncomfortable as he actually felt. In spite of everything, Hiccup wanted to make sure Toothless would enjoy himself without guilt or hesitation or hurry.

He needn’t have worried however, for the black dragon had already begun nuzzling at a Deadly Nadder’s beak, while a Timberjack was sniffing curiously at his hind quarters. Hiccup spun around again, and hastened his pace stiffly towards the cliff. The other dragons took notice of the little human, but otherwise ignored him.

Hiccup approached the low cliff, and sat with his feet dangling just above the waves, nibbling his bottom lip, and tapping his hands on his thighs.

_How long is this going to take?_ He wondered.

As he waited, Hiccup tried to ignore the distant, but nonetheless disconcerting noises of draconic love-making, coming not only from his friend’s direction, but from all across the island. To distract himself, he stared intently at the sea and sky, and at the colorful dragons dancing like leaves in the wind; there were so many, he couldn’t even begin to count them. Slowly, Hiccup realized he was no longer feeling so much disturbed by the situation, but rather strangely… fascinated. The dances, the courting, the whole life-giving endeavor, they all held a certain beauty as parts of nature.

As weird as he felt on that island, Hiccup became suddenly aware of being a spectator to perhaps one of the most intrinsically natural things in the world. He had so far become somewhat acquainted with death. He had lost his mother when little, he had seen some of his villagers perish to the war and to disease. He had learnt to kill in order to eat. But, on that island there was so much life, and that’s what life looked like in the world of dragons. Free dragons. Hiccup smiled at two Monstrous Nightmares circling each other in the air just above him; there was nothing monstrous about them then.

Encouraged (and maybe a little curious) Hiccup allowed himself a bashful peek over his shoulder, towards the clearing. Yet, as soon as he spotted Toothless in the distance, leaning awkwardly upon what looked like a female Timberjack, Hiccup shut his eyes and turned around immediately, face burning.

_I guess life can be gross too,_ he thought, flustered from the sight. He promised not to let his curiosity get the better of him a second time. Yet, a bit later, he broke that promise, only to see Toothless again from the corner of his eye, engaged in a similar tussle with a Deadly Nadder.

_Another one?!_ Hiccup yelled inside, turning his gaze south with twice the speed as before; so fast, his vision spun.

He felt strangely conflicted. He could not decide whether to feel happy for his friend, or actually jealous, and not because of the Night Fury’s unfair ease in finding ‘playmates’; at least not just. Most of all, he envied his friend’s astonishing confidence with the very matter of sex. The dragon regarded the subject in the same way one would talk about eating, or sleeping. This was diametrically opposed to how Hiccup tackled the subject; that is to say, not at all.

Hiccup rested his elbows on his knees, his chin cupped in his hands. As he contemplated the setting sun, the idea shyly emerged inside his mind that maybe, one day, even he, as an animal, would happen to partake in that exciting activity with a human female, one that would hopefully share his feelings of attraction. Was he (a ‘hiccup’ and an outcast) ever destined to do it? He certainly wanted to, in his dreams for one, and increasingly while awake too.

_At least once._

He still could not shake off the fear of being a disappointment in that field, as he had been in many others. In fact, the little he knew about sex, he had learnt from Gobber’s dirty jokes, and by overhearing the other boys’ and men’s sometimes even naughtier banters. Not to mention Berk’s farmers. Even Gobber’s jokes weren’t as embarrassing as some of the farmers’ work-related conversations.

Hiccup was still curious of course, but also afraid, and confused, and ashamed. And yet, the way Toothless had talked about mating made the whole effort seem so… normal. Hiccup suddenly wondered if he was perhaps destined to stay a virgin forever.

_There’s always someone in every village, right? If there is going to be one from Berk for my generation, then it’s probably going to be me, isn’t it?_

He was surprised at how important it seemed at the time, even in the face of his condition as an outcast. He just could not- or, more accurately, did not want to accept that strangely unappealing destiny. He didn’t want to be that person. He already had the worst reputation a Viking could ask for. He couldn’t accept to also never know a woman’s touch.

_Even if it isn’t Astrid._

The image of the blond girl flashed into his mind. He could see her eyes, her hair, her lean, agile figure in the distance. He imagined her swimming towards this island. Towards him. He tried to remember her as he saw her in some of his dreams, but the memory was, as in those dreams, fuzzy and unclear. Despite what most people said, Hiccup had never believed dreams to be omens, considering none of them had ever come true. Lately, however, he had caught himself hoping some of them were. Predictions of the future. Particularly the ones in which he could touch the girl’s lips with his own, and even the ones when he’d see her in different states of dishevelment, engaged with him in activities that made his face flush, and his stomach tighten with excitement.

They had become rather frequent again, those dreams. In fact, they had already been somewhat frequent before, when he was still on Berk. Hiccup could not recall when, but a swelling appetite for pleasure had long started brewing secretly inside of him. For the last year or two, most of the ‘dirty’ things men often joked and cackled about in Berk’s great hall, after a mug of ale or two, Hiccup would sometimes catch himself, if not dreaming, then thinking about, especially now that his daily preoccupations had calmed, and his survival was no longer the pressing concern it had been in the first months of his exile.

Fortunately, he had become provident enough to manage his needs somewhat regularly (and strictly in secret), so as to avoid more awkward awakenings with Toothless. The dreams did not have the same power on him then, but they were still there to remind him of his unrequited desire for the fierce Berkian maiden, and of the pointless fantasy of, one day, sharing a bed with her, or even any maiden for that matter, though Hiccup had eyes for Astrid alone.

_Could that day ever come?_

As if to answer his question, an unseen Terror squawked by Hiccup’s side.

“Twitch? You came here too!” Hiccup cheered happily, beckoning his little yellow-scaled friend to come closer. He welcomed the distraction from his personal musings, and from what he knew was going on not far behind him. “Where are Sharpshot and the others?”

Twitch approached the familiar human and brushed his head on Hiccup’s thigh, purring.

“Nice place this island, right? Having fun?”

As Hiccup scratched Twitch behind his small, twisted horns, the dragon let out a desolate cooing sound, almost a sigh. Hiccup did not need to connect to the little Terror’s mind (which he couldn’t do anyway) to understand why he was sad.

“Can’t find a mate, huh? Tell me about it.”

Hiccup’s mouth inadvertently curved into a small, quick smirk. While he didn’t think what he’d said to be particularly funny, he found the fact that he’d opened up about his private predicament, even with the tiny Terror, to be surprisingly… well, surprising.

“I guess we can’t all be like ‘Jarl Charmingson’ over there, can we?” Hiccup went on dryly, nodding towards the clearing, but without looking; at least at first. Then, he couldn’t resist. Biting his bottom lip, he turned his head to briefly spy again. His face did not burn as much this time.

“That’s not the same Nadder as before, is it?” Hiccup asked Twitch. He was not expecting an answer, and he wouldn’t have needed one either, for he knew it to be true. “ _Man._ I know what you are thinking, Twitch. I wish I was born a Night Fury too.”

Twitch squawked again.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure one day you’ll find someone,” Hiccup told the little Terror, trying his best to sound comforting. He sighed. “At least you are not an outcast. Or a fugitive. Or both.”

Still scratching the little Terror, Hiccup resumed staring at the horizon. He watched the sun to his right diving slowly into the sea, like a red ball of light. At this time, Hiccup could look straight towards it, without hurting his eyes. It had the same color as the lava spilling slowly from the nearby volcano. He began wondering if the sun was in fact nothing but a ball of hot steel that the gods heated up every morning, and then quenched inside the endless sea during the night. The sea could not be endless though, Hiccup knew. He could always see it curve on itself whenever he flew high above the clouds with Toothless. Perhaps Midgard was a stranger place than he’d ever imagined, as that alien-looking island seemed to suggest.

Hiccup was suddenly nudged on his back by something heavy, which shoved him forward, towards the precipice. It was not strong enough a push to make him fall, but very much close.

“Whoa! Bud’?! You’ve almost made me fall off the cliff!”

_“I would have caught you,”_ Toothless said confidently. _“But I had warned you to watch out, and here you are, sitting right at the edge.”_

“Yeah, well… I was trying to stay as far as possible from… uhmm… How did it go?” Hiccup finally asked. Was it proper to ask? He suddenly wondered. Should he pretend like nothing had happened? Or did he have to congratulate his friend? He was not sure how a human’s friend was supposed to behave in such situations, much less a dragon’s. Toothless did not seem to notice his rider’s unease.

_“It felt great. Thank you for waiting,”_ the dragon said with a toothless grin across his happily spent face. _“But I would not mind coming again before summer ends.”_

Hiccup chuckled at that, then wiped what he knew to be a stupid smirk from his face, and replaced it with an awkward, but supportive smile. “I can’t say no to you, can I?”

Toothless licked one side of his face appreciatively. Hiccup had grown used to his friend’s large tongue brushing his face, but after what he’d just seen Toothless do on that island, for some reason, he could not resist wiping his cheek with his sleeve.

_“I will make it up to you when you decide to mate too,”_ Toothless promised loyally, as if he was certain that Hiccup could do it. _“We can even visit the human village more often, so you can look for a female, if you are careful not to get caught.”_ He gave special emphasis to that last part.

Hiccup was prepared to decline the offer, just like he had before, yet now he found he didn’t actually want to. Had the dragon’s confidence rubbed off on him somehow?

_You never know what Freya might have planned for me, right?_ He thought with a tiny spark of hope, then replied: “Th- thanks.” His voice a timid murmur.

When Toothless was saddled and ready to return, the sun had set completely, though light lingered longer this time of year, and the volcano’s mouth glowed in the twilight like a gigantic pot of coals. Hiccup wanted to see how it looked in the night, but he was getting tired, and the thought of food and sleep was far more appealing, both to him and to the Night Fury.

Besides, Hiccup had promised Toothless to visit this place again. He just couldn’t refuse. Nor, to his surprise, did he wish to.

* * *

August, the month of harvesting and drying hay, of fervent trading and sea-travel, the month of the harshest dragon-raids and of dangerous nest-hunts had finally come to an end, yielding its place to September with surprising tranquility on Hiccup’s island, south as it was, forgotten as it seemed by the southern villages, and even by the dragon-queen’s horrific appetite. Nearly half a year had passed since Hiccup had left Berk as an outcast, and, so far, for almost six months, he had survived. And in one piece at that.

Yet, to this day, Hiccup wasn’t really sure whether to celebrate for the loss of his home, or mourn. He had done both, though not in the same measure. Grieving with homesickness had come easier, at least until recently. In fact, the last few weeks had likely been the most pleasant, and by far the most carefree in Hiccup’s memory.

He was still figuring out how to manage his outcast’s life on a deserted island, of course; there was a lot of trial and error involved. He was also fairly worried about the impending winter. His small house was still not ready, and he was not sure how much food to stock up with, and how. Hiccup had even tried salting and drying meat by himself, but of his three attempts, only the last one had succeeded somewhat.

Due to a rainy couple of days, as was to be expected in the Viking Archipelago, the first batch he had attempted to dry hadn’t done so fast enough, and had to be discarded. It was said that no man should eat meat which took longer than four days to dry. Hiccup was glad he recalled the precious rule of thumb, though he could not remember whom to thank for telling him.

The second batch of meat, Hiccup had smoked, only too much, which explained the distinctly tarry flavor; it was so bad that even the Terrors refused to eat any, and they apparently ate anything, especially Sharpshot. In fact, the little dragon had often been caught attempting to chew on the raw slivers Hiccup hung from the rather primitive-looking rack, which he had built for that purpose. Even Toothless had stolen a piece, though he hadn’t done it out of hunger, but rather in jest.

In the end, Hiccup was forced to spend more of his coin than he had hoped, in order to buy his winter supplies from the village of Thargran. It was likely not going be easy being an outcast during the cold, colder, and freezing months. Nonetheless, Toothless did not seem worried, and the dragon’s serenity and composure were almost contagious.

Eventually, Hiccup decided he was managing things fairly well. In fact, he also realized that, much to his surprise, not only was he surviving, but he also felt happy, which was in no small part a merit of his ever-improving ability to speak with Toothless. Loneliness was fast becoming a forgotten emotion.

If that were not enough, Hiccup had even assembled a lively bunch of dragons around himself, his own fire-breathing flock, with which he played by the sea, and worked, and shared food, just like a family. A family that had recently gained a new member, promising more to come.

As the dragons’ mating season came gradually to an end, of the three male Terrible Terrors, only Bolt had returned from the nesting island with a female. Neither Sharpshot nor Twitch had been as successful, at least for this year. The new female, Hiccup had named Frigga. She was green and orange, with similar color patterns to Sharpshot’s, which sometimes made it hard for Hiccup to tell them apart after sundown. She was smaller than her newfound mate, but just as reserved towards the human, whom she liked, yet without showing the same enthusiasm as Sharpshot and Twitch did.

Frigga and Bolt were already building a nest of twigs where to lay their eggs. Hiccup was not sure whether to feel flattered, or worried, for they had placed the nest upon the roof of Hiccup’s own, still unfinished shelter. Thankfully, it was on the side Hiccup had already completed, wedged firmly atop the slanted roof’s corner at the back of the structure, where two of the larger rafters crossed, supporting each other.

Beside the Terrors’ endeavors, and Toothless’ inevitably more libertine approach, the other two dragons’ activities had not been as noticeable regarding their visits to the nesting island. Dreyri, the young Monstrous Nightmare in the family (and the only female before Frigga) had in fact shown no interest in visiting the place, and Khnut’s habits as far as mating was concerned remained a mystery.

Still, Hiccup did learn that the Zipplebacks’ two heads shared their vision, as he noticed both reacting to things only one head could see, particularly offers of food. He also discovered that a Monstrous Nightmare’s body-coating fire came from its ability to sweat flammable fluid from between its scales at will.

Moreover, amongst a multitude of the dragons’ smaller idiosyncrasies, Hiccup had begun to identify the meanings behind a good portion of their throat-noises. Sadly, he wasn’t apt at producing the noises himself, despite the time he had spent practicing. Still, Hiccup could consistently understand these dragons’ general intentions, which was more than Bork the Bold, the very author of Berk’s dragon-manual, could have ever been able to claim.

Aside from learning, Hiccup also began teaching. Namely, he taught Toothless to read, and even write, making him draw runes in the sand. Toothless picked up reading amazingly fast. Writing, though, was another matter. The Night Fury’s claws, while formidably good at tearing flesh to pieces, were not familiar with the careful movements of writing, and wielding a wooden stick held between his teeth, as he had in the cove the day human and dragon had first sealed their friendship, was even less precise.

As the month of September began, however, Hiccup’s intense enthusiasm for his many activities wavered. While the other dragons did not seem to notice his sudden aloofness, Toothless did, which was why, Hiccup suspected, the Night Fury had just suggested an extra-adventurous, afternoon flight around their island’s tall, volcanic mountain. Hiccup accepted the offer without giving it much thought.

Hiccup of course knew the reason behind his current mood, but he pretended it away, knowing it would soon pass. He said nothing about it. He never did. He did not wish to share what the last days of summer meant to him. It wasn’t worth the pain, reminiscing about that late summer raid, when his mother had died. He could still remember when his father had told him. Apart from the tears, the man’s stern face had been like stone, and had remained as stone ever since, especially when Hiccup was there. Seven years had passed, but Hiccup could still picture the moment perfectly, no matter how he wished to forget everything about it.

Despite Hiccup’s silence on the matter, Toothless behaved as if he knew the reason for his rider’s current demeanor. In fact, the dragon had always respected Hiccup’s reluctance to speak about his mother, especially after the two had become capable of talking, but, somehow, even before that. At least, that’s what Hiccup had felt. Toothless seemed to know it was a truly sensitive topic, ever since that one single time Hiccup had mentioned it in the cove, murmuring to himself as he often did. It was actually this kind of attentiveness on the Night Fury’s part that had nurtured Hiccup’s profound and utter devotion for his scaly friend.

After the dragon was saddled and geared, they took to the skies by themselves, exploring the narrow crevices amongst the sharp peaks that trailed the lip of their volcano’s huge mouth, inside of which, shaded by the sun, their island’s small glacier was nestled. Hiccup drank in the last of the strong summer winds pulling playfully at his clothes.

The air was clearer than usual today, and the constant ring of clouds surrounding the volcano’s feet seemed to have been washed away. It was a very rare occurrence. Yet, steamy plumes of fog lingered stubbornly from one of the crevices, where the land had collapsed to form a small plateau, like a secret balcony on the side of the lone mountain. Hiccup decided to investigate.

When Toothless closed in from above, Hiccup realized the persistent clouds were made by actual steam, rising from what looked like a large pool of hot water, trapped in the dark rock, and screened by the steep mountain on one side, and mist on all others. The ground surrounding it was carpeted with thick, green moss.

“Odin’s beard! Toothless, that’s a hot spring!” Hiccup all but screamed, excitement overflowing in his voice, and prevailing over his recent tribulations. “Let’s land!”

Toothless obliged, diving straight towards the place. Once they were on the ground, Hiccup took in his surroundings.

Through the tepid mist, he could see the whole southern shore, opposite their beach. At times, gusts of wind made the fog curl and clear, and he could even make out the sea. When Hiccup finally turned around to observe the spring of hot water, his face lit up with a beaming smile.

It was not big for a hot spring, wedged in a crevice as it was, but it could still welcome a dozen full-grown Vikings, or a couple of dragons. Hiccup’s smile widened further when he realized the water did not smell of sulfur as badly as the lakes of the nesting island. Perhaps this mountain still had some life deep within, and, as the glacier melted, fresh water likely leaked inside the rock, only to be heated by the warm insides of the not-entirely-dormant volcano.

_Thor almighty! This place is awesome! How did we not find it sooner?!_

Hiccup was ecstatic. He could finally have a hot bath, his first one in nearly half a year! Before he could think about what he was doing, without hesitation, Hiccup took off his ragged garments, down to his smallclothes. Abruptly, just before taking those off as well, he froze, almost stumbling in his half-removed under-breeches.

Toothless was still there. Hiccup had always asked the dragon to leave when he washed, but this time he had nearly forgotten. Just then, the Night Fury, who had been admiring the scenery too after their landing, noticed what his rider was doing.

_“Oh, I will leave you to it then,”_ Toothless said, turning around, but stopping to contemplate where to go.

“Wait,” Hiccup muttered, his face getting warmer. “You… You can stay… if you want.”

Hiccup spoke the words on a whim, justifying his uncommonly bold decision by thinking there was no other place for Toothless to go, at least none that would not require the dragon to climb down the steep mountain. Besides, after all this time together, and especially after accompanying his friend to the nesting island, all reasons for modesty seemed suddenly, utterly  laughable. Hiccup could no longer hold on to his shyness when it came to Toothless. Why hide from his most trusted friend?

Even so, when he was finally bare, Hiccup still felt the strong urge to cover himself with his hands before the dragon’s neutral, but studious look. He tried to look casual about it, with great effort.

Toothless sat on his haunches. He seemed almost surprised, though he said nothing. It felt as if he was trying to hold back his disbelief, or curiosity, or maybe even joy at having gained more of his rider’s trust. Or perhaps it was none of those things. Hiccup couldn’t really tell what was going on through the mind of the suddenly very silent Night Fury. He could only see the dragon’s slitted nostrils flaring expectantly as he breathed. Perhaps he was reading too much into it.

Truth be told, Hiccup was awaiting some comment, an observation, a joke, a gibe, but when none ever came, he felt almost disappointed.

Still, silence between the two had always carried meaning. Hiccup had gotten so much used to talking lately, he had almost forgotten. Despite the dragon’s deceptively blank stare, Hiccup knew that Toothless understood what he was feeling. He flashed a small thankful smile, then walked into the water as if nothing had been said. After all, no words had actually been spoken.

Hiccup sighed as he plunged neck-deep into the warm water, even though it was a little on the scalding side. He would likely boil if he stayed there too long. Nonetheless, he savored the hot bath.

Toothless lay down near the shallow water, never fully entering the steaming pool amongst the rocks.

Smiling contentedly, Hiccup let out another deep, liberating sigh. It sounded like half a celebration. After all, he had just regained one of the last few luxuries he had been sorely missing from his past life on Berk.

_The gods are good,_ Hiccup thought to himself, closing his eyes, feeling the memory of his mother’s death and his preoccupations for the upcoming winter melt away with the heat of his bath.

Alas, if any gods existed, they were never good for too long. The cold winds were rising already. The days were shortening, and all Viking ships were sailing back to their native harbors. Fall was coming, intent on taking away this blissful summer’s hope. Abruptly.


	21. Fall

**(Hiccup)**

 

_We are but leaves on autumn trees.*_

…

Hiccup opened his eyes in small increments, waking up from a pleasant night’s sleep. He felt remarkably rested, and light, despite having the Night Fury’s strong, scaly limbs tangled around him in what looked like a smothering, but comfortable hug. He did not have the dragon’s wings covering him though, for it was still rather warm this time of year, and even more so inside Hiccup’s abode, which had finally been completed after weeks of hard work and toil. In fact, this was his first actual night inside the wooden, tent-shaped structure, and the dragon’s too, since Hiccup had made the hut big enough for Toothless to fit inside as well, as long as he was careful not to ram down the central pillar, or any of the rafters.

To celebrate the completion of his new home, Hiccup had toasted again with some mead from the skin Gobber had given him as one of many parting gifts. He had offered Toothless a taste too, but the dragon regarded the liquid almost like a poison, and had thus refused the offer.

Hiccup had nearly forgotten about his small supply of mead all this time, but he was glad he had. He realized mead tasted quite alright (or, more accurately, not so bad) when enjoyed on happy occasions such as that one. He had fallen asleep before getting particularly dizzy, which was why he had awoken this morning with absolutely no headache, contrary to what was said to happen to those who drank the acclaimed beverage. Perhaps he was immune to it. He didn’t know. He had barely begun to discover its secrets.

Nonetheless, despite the lack of a headache, Hiccup did wake up with a very parched tongue, not to mention a dangerously full bladder. With composed urgency, he tried to wiggle his way out the Night Fury’s embrace, but the sleeping dragon pulled him closer.

“Toothless?” Hiccup whispered gently. “Bud’? Can I get up?”

Still half asleep, the dragon stirred, huffed, smacked his lips, then opened one eye. He closed it immediately, producing a sulky groan, his limbs still firm as tree-roots.

“Please. I really need to make water,” Hiccup said a little louder, trying to free himself. He was neither strong, nor flexible enough.

Toothless shifted. He was surely awake now, but, instead of letting him go, he tightened the hug, like a child with a stuffed toy, purring lovingly.

“Oh no- Toothless! _Toothless!_ Don’t squeeze me!”

At the sound of Hiccup’s second or third yowl, the dragon desisted. Feigning disappointment, he lifted his paws. Hiccup finally hurried out of the wooden hut, Toothless laughing groggily behind him.

It was drizzling outside, though the grey clouds concealing the morning sky promised heavier rain very soon. A storm was brewing in the distance.

After relieving himself from his urgency behind a tree, Hiccup returned inside almost as hastily as he had run out, due to the increasing downpour. He did not go back to sleep, unlike Toothless appeared to have. He did however drink thirstily from his waterskin, which he used to fill from a thin rocky brook that traversed the woods, whenever gathering rain in his pot and bucket was not enough.

His thirst satisfied, Hiccup woke Toothless again to help light the stone fireplace, which had been embedded in the long side of the rectangular room. The fireplace was roofed as well, so that no rain would fall in the hearth, but Hiccup still checked for leaks, while the dragon went back to sleep once more.

Fortunately, the layer of leaves and dirt coating the whole structure was doing a proper job at sealing the cracks between the slanted, wooden logs. The heavy sail-canvas curtaining the large entrance was also proving to be a decent shield for the early autumn winds. Hiccup smiled with satisfaction at his work, then sat upon a pelt on the packed-dirt floor, near the back of the single, cozy room, where all of his belongings were stored.

_Finally! No more hiding in those cramped caves when it rains. And no more floors of sharp rock for this Viking’s butt,_ Hiccup thought. As a matter of fact, he was already planning to upgrade to a cleaner, wooden floor, but sawing regular flat planks was hard work, especially without help, or without the proper tools.

As Hiccup made himself comfortable, he picked up his journal, and shuffled through random pages, his thoughts wandering absently. He took a deep breath, held it, closed his eyes, then slowly let it out. He could smell the wet sand of the beach beyond the tree-line, not twenty paces from their shelter. He took in the scents of the surrounding forest: moss and sap and dirt. He could hear the roiling sea nearby, its large, regular waves mixing foam and pebbles, crackling.

Maybe he _would_ fall asleep again, he thought. In spite of the oncoming storm, there was a powerful sense of calm in the air. Their small fire popped and hissed steadily, Toothless snored, and Hiccup could feel the safety that came with having an actual home. After so many months wallowing in semi-panicked uncertainty, he felt finally whole.

With his eyes still closed, Hiccup listened to the rain outside, and to the bubbling of thunder in distance, as the sparks from Thor’s hammer fell onto Midgard. At such times, Hiccup liked to think of Thor as a blacksmith just like himself (he did wield a hammer after all), and of lightning as the sparks shooting off his anvil.

Then again, Hiccup knew this was not the case. _Supposedly_. Aside from one mute Berkian priestess, he had never met anyone who could either confirm or deny such assumption, so he considered himself free to believe what he wanted. For all he knew, maybe the mightiest son of Odin was truly nearby, watching with approval over the young outcast, whilst riding his goat-pulled chariot, leading the last of the summer storms, with Mjolnir raised in one hand.

Strangely, despite the heavy waves, the wind was not particularly strong, but even if it had been, Hiccup’s hut would hold. It was more than sturdy enough; he’d made sure of it. Besides, it was protected by the trees around it.

Hiccup had even asked Toothless to climb atop the hut’s roof, once it was finished, to test its resistance. He’d had to check, because, come winter, if the snowstorms here were even half as harsh as they were on Berk, snow could pile up as high as a full-grown person, and Viking roofs had to hold such weights, sometimes for weeks on end.

Hiccup would keep making enhancements here and there of course. Actually, he felt his shelter was never going to be truly finished, since he knew he would never want to stop improving upon it. He thought that maybe, after the upcoming winter, he could even build an extension. Maybe a bigger chamber. Maybe even a small forge of his own, to finally bring life to his many projects, some of which he could even sell or trade when he went to Thargran, or perhaps some other village as well.

Hiccup knew he could not risk visiting Thargran too often. People talked, and when trading ships stopped sailing for the winter, the villagers would certainly get suspicious seeing a foreign boy appear every so often. They might realize he did not live on their island. He had to visit different places. There had to be more villages to the south, but before the Wicked Waters, of course. He would not risk going north, for obvious reasons, but he did not want to reach the so-called mainland either. Not that he knew how.

It was said that crossing the Wicked Waters was near impossible, and only the bravest and most capable of sailors could manage it. Trader Johan was supposedly one of them, much to Hiccup’s skepticism.

Hiccup had no need to sail of course, for he could fly, but he saw no reason to visit such a foreign place. Rumor had it that they spoke a different language there, and that mountains in the mainland reached as high as the tallest clouds. It was also said that, somehow, the gods were different there.

Hiccup could hardly imagine what such a place was like, assuming it actually existed, since he knew only of Johan who claimed to have been there, and Johan had always liked to make up stories. He was famous for it in fact. As far as most northern Vikings were concerned, the Wicked Waters could have very well been the end of the world, much like the Last Sea to the west, or the White Sea to the east.

In any case, Hiccup did not want a forge just for making trading goods. He was actually going to _need_ one very soon, and if not an actual forge, at least a workplace of some sort, because Toothless’ saddle, and especially his prosthetic tailfin, were both starting to show significant wear. Hiccup still had the spare tailfin, but it did not perform nearly as well. Besides, it could not last forever, so a workplace was soon going to become a priority.

_I might also need to learn how to farm,_ Hiccup thought. There was still so much to do. So much that could be done. He even considered getting some animals: sheep, chickens, pigs, perhaps even a yak or two, though transporting the heavy beast was going to pose a bit of a problem. Toothless could hardly carry a full-grown yak across such distances. An elk’s weight had marked the dragon’s limit.

_Maybe I could build myself a boat. I will also need to feed the animals, and-_

A clap of thunder made Toothless suddenly jump and wake. The storm was finally above them. The rain became louder too, and even the wind picked up speed outside. Once he realized nothing was wrong, Toothless yawned, wafting his morning fish-breath towards Hiccup, who barely grimaced in return.

Moments later, a red snout peeked inside the hut from between the canvas drapes at the entrance. It was Dreyri. Hiccup got up to lift the stone-weights holding down the curtain, and raised the thick cloth just enough to let the Monstrous Nightmare put her neck inside. She actually tried to get inside completely, but she could not fit with the Night Fury already taking up most of the space. She produced a cooing sound that was something between grateful and politely apologetic. Hiccup had heard it before, and knew its meaning.

“It’s alright. Come in,” Hiccup said gently. “Toothless doesn’t mind moving over a bit. Does he?” He asked, looking at the Night Fury.

_“Of course not,”_ Toothless replied flatly, his eyes narrow; an expression that spelled: _‘you’ll pay for this later.’_

Dreyri managed to wedge herself tightly beside the black dragon, whilst her rump and tail remained outside, under the rain. It was not the rain she was fleeing from though, Hiccup already knew, but the loud claps of thunder. The crimson-colored Nightmare was often scared by loud noises, among other things. It was strange behavior for a dragon of her kind, which was why Hiccup would sometimes jokingly refer to her as ‘the Shymare’.

Still, her meek demeanor brought out the motherly instinct in Hiccup, who could not deny her request for solace. He was actually flattered to see Dreyri trusting him so much, considering how timid she had been at first. In fact, she was not the only dragon who had begun trusting him; there were five more outside (not to mention two eggs), which Hiccup had all but adopted, and they did not like to be left behind.

Thus, it was not a surprise when, a few rumbles of thunder later, Sharpshot joined them, entering the hut through the small opening above the hearth, afraid he was missing out. Soon afterwards, as the storm began to drift away, and as the rain slowly softened, Twitch and Bolt invaded Hiccup’s abode too, whilst Frigga stayed by her eggs, in the nest she and Bolt had built upon the rooftop.

Hiccup welcomed the three Terrors, since their size did not pose much of a problem. The same could not be said for the large Zippleback, Khnut, who was now trying to sneak his own (or her own) two heads inside the hut as well.

Toothless was not complaining, but his annoyed expression said it all.

“Alright guys, we can’t all fit in here,” Hiccup announced when he got up, waving his arms. “ _Cooome_ on. Out. The weather’s almost cleared up. Time to eat!”

As the Terrors, Nightmare, and Zippleback pouted or chirped their way out of the little house, Hiccup equipped Toothless with saddle and prosthetic, then got out himself. Bolt took Frigga’s place by the small nest, so she could hunt in his stead and stretch her wings. The rest of them waited on the beach.

The rain had stopped, leaving the sand dark and heavy. Sunlight was still scarce, mere tendrils spread gold across the sea. The sight reminded Hiccup of Berk, though it was certainly colder this time of year in his birthplace.

The dragons were waiting for his signal, one of the few draconic sounds Hiccup had finally learnt to pronounce correctly. He mounted on the Night Fury, and finally howled:

“Wooaoùp!”

And the daily hunt began.

* * *

It was a slightly overcast noon, but the sun still peeked occasionally from behind the clouds, warming the sand. Apart from the Night Fury, the dragons of the island were sleeping off their midday meal, some sprawled by the sea, others in the shade of the forest.

Hiccup was sitting by the beach, with his journal in one hand, resting his back on a boulder and making calculations, counting days on his fingers. It had been a long while since he’d been told the exact date, and he was trying to figure it out again.

“You know, bud’, I think October has begun.”

The idling dragon turned to face him. _“Is that one of your human ‘months’?”_

“Yes, the tenth. You know what this means?”

Toothless shook his head.

“Two things, actually. First, it means that a whole year has already passed since we first met. I think it was a few weeks ago.”

The dragon cocked his head to one side. _“So?”_

“So… Well, humans like to celebrate some important events after every year. In fact, the second thing I meant to say is: I’ve just turned fourteen years old!” Hiccup announced happily. “I think my birthday is today. Unless it was yesterday… but then Thor’s day was…” He trailed off.

_“Birthday. You mean like hatching day?”_ Toothless asked.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

_“So you have lived for fourteen winters already.”_

Hiccup nodded eagerly. When he noticed that the Night Fury did not look particularly pleased, he added: “It’s actually considered a happy occasion. Some people celebrate birthdays, especially if it’s for someone important, like the chief. Other people might receive small gifts. Gobber used to give me a bit of his good scrap metal. Then he’d always bring some honey-bread, and we’d eat it together in the forge, after work.”

Hiccup went on to recount what his typical birthday was like on Berk. He talked about how a few families (usually those who wanted to be on better terms with the chief) used to bring some of their extra produce, or a particularly plump rabbit, or maybe some carved wooden trinkets for the heir.

Stoick himself would present his son with a new piece of clothing, boots, a belt, or breeches, sometimes so oversized that Hiccup would have to ask Helga, the woman who baked for the chief’s household, to have them sewn into a smaller fit, without telling the chief. Hiccup had long stopped asking his father for smaller clothes. Reminding the man that his only heir was smaller and scrawnier than all of his peers would always bring forth that dissatisfied grimace upon Stoick’s face, the one expression Hiccup dreaded more than any other.

However, what Hiccup did not mention about his birthdays was how, despite the badly-masked lack of pride, his father would always extort a cheer for his son in the great hall, from all those who were feasting there that evening. Hiccup had always been forced to attend, and grudgingly thank the grudging toasts.

He tried to clear his head from those memories, preserving the good bits, which he still remembered with some fondness. People would even pay more attention to him on that day, he recalled, at least of the positive kind, except perhaps for that time when Snotlout and Tuffnut had thrown him into the stream, although Hiccup still believed it had been a well-meaning attempt at Viking friendship.

“It really wasn’t so bad,” he said. “I kind of liked my birthdays at home.”

_“But it’s not your home now,”_ Toothless pointed out harshly. _“This is your home.”_ He added, nodding towards the tree-line, behind which, stood their new hut.

Through their strange mental connection, Hiccup could feel bitterness fanning from the dragon in waves. _Did I say something to provoke him?_ He wondered.

“I know,” he replied. “I was just telling you what used to happen on those days. It’s not like I can forget all about it now.”

_“You should,”_ Toothless said flatly.

The dragon’s words hit Hiccup like a slap to the face.  The joy he had mustered from recalling those memories vanished almost instantly. He felt his stomach tighten. “Why? What did they even do to you? It’s my life they ruined. Not _yours_. For that, _I_ am responsible. If you want to blame somebody, blame me.”

_“So your life is ruined now.”_

“You know what I mean,” Hiccup corrected quickly. “Why are _you_ blaming _them_ so much?”

Toothless snorted. _“I do not like them. Your father, your uncle, the other young-ones, and… even that stupid girl with yellow hair. All of them, except the one you call Gobber maybe. They wanted to make you kill me. They wanted to…”_ he hesitated, _“They are stupid and dangerous. You should just stay as far as possible, and forget about them.”_

“You are just saying that because you want me all to yourself,” Hiccup rejoined in what he thought was a light-hearted, teasing tone. He did not want to argue with Toothless, so trying to make light of the situation seemed to be his only way out of that conversation. Alas, the dragon’s words had struck a nerve. That was probably why he could feel anger bubbling inside of him, and could not control what he said next: “No, maybe you just _need_ me. So long as I stay away from home, you can keep flying. Wasn’t that your point? It’s nice to be considered just a means to an end. Maybe I’m just a tool to you.”

The following instants seemed to stretch in time, as Hiccup considered the words that had escaped his mouth. Hastily, he reached out with his hand, saying “I... I didn’t mean that. I-” but the dragon withdrew his paw at the touch.

Toothless puffed smoke from his nostrils. He did not speak or growl. In fact, he had cut off their mental connection, but as he made to leave, his dark scaly features were etched with a deep scowl. He was either angry or upset, or both. Hiccup could not tell which of the two emotions he hated seeing more on the Night Fury’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Hiccup repeated, but did not chase the dragon as he trudged his way into the woods, grumbling. He called his name twice, before desisting.

_He knows I didn’t mean to say that, right?_ He thought. _He must know. Maybe it’s better to just leave him be for a while._

It took the better part of the afternoon for Toothless to reappear on the beach. His face looked still a bit sullen, but he was trotting straight towards him, his teeth biting on a rectangular plank of wood, of those Hiccup had been painstakingly sawing and putting aside to upgrade the floor of his hut.

“Hey…” Hiccup greeted timidly. “I’m really sorry about-”

Toothless dropped the plank on the sand by his rider’s feet. It was slightly wider than Hiccup’s shoulders, and it had been charred black, with claw-marks trailing jagged lines on the surface, revealing the lighter wood underneath.

Although anxious to complete his apology, staring at the rectangular piece of wood, Hiccup asked: “What’s this?”

_“You are not just a ‘means to an end’,”_ Toothless replied softly but firmly, pushing the plank towards Hiccup with his snout, before adding: _“This is for you. I hope you have a good hatching day.”_

“Oh,” Hiccup murmured, not merely surprised, but astonished. Picking up the sooty plank, he could only mutter: “I… You… You didn’t have to.”

_“I cannot make you honey-bread, or find you clothes,”_ the dragon continued, _“but you said something about wooden stuff, and… this is all I could do.”_

“Thank you, bud’. But I don’t deserve a gift from you. Not after what I said,” Hiccup confessed, and even though he was already hugging the blackened plank to his chest. “It wasn’t fair, what I said.”

Toothless ignored him. With a paw, he pulled the board from Hiccup’s grasp, so he could lay it on the ground. _“This is me,”_ he explained, placing his paw near the squiggly claw-marks at the bottom, _“and this is you, flying on my back.”_ The dragon pointed at the claw-marks above. “This is the tail-fin you made me. And this is the moon.”

Hiccup stared speechlessly, looking at the jagged marks. The shapes were hard to make out, but once he knew what to expect, he saw it too. When realization hit him, his mouth hung open.

Toothless did not wait for a comment. He turned the plank over, revealing two more scribbles on the other side. _“Now this was harder,”_ he said, gesturing at the first row. _“These are the runes for your name. H, I, C, C, U, and P, like you taught me. And this,”_ he gestured at the second row, _“is my name. I hope I wrote it right. T, O, O-”_

“Toothless-” Hiccup cut in, but couldn’t go on. His voice caught in his throat. It took all of his will not to tear up and sniffle like a child. Hastily, he cleared his throat, then braced himself to speak as normally as he could.

“‘Hiccup and Toothless’. You actually made all this… for me?” he murmured, looking down at the plank, so he wouldn’t have to meet the dragon’s eyes. He did not want his happiness to overtake him, but his eyes were wet already. Suddenly, Hiccup jumped towards the dragon. He clung onto the Night Fury’s neck, arms and legs both.

“Toothless, this is the best present I’ve ever received!”

_“Are you sure?”_ The dragon asked skeptically. _“It’s just a scratched piece of wood.”_

Once Hiccup felt he got a grip on his emotions, he lowered himself to the ground, and sat back down on the sand, picking up his present. “I mean it,” he said, smiling. “No one’s ever actually _made_ something with my name on it.”

_“Oh. I’m glad you like it. It was not easy to make. It took lots of tries.”_

“Tries?” Hiccup asked. “Wait, how many boards did you use?”

Toothless looked thoughtful for a while. _“I did not count. Maybe nine? I think this was the last one.”_

“You used ALL OF THEM?! Do you realize how long it took me to…?!” He stopped himself, and took a breath. “I guess I’ll have to make new ones.” He said calmly, scratching his temple.

Hiccup began studying his present, and he was grinning once more. “At least your writing has improved. So, there’s that.”

Gurgling joyfully, Toothless boasted a broad smile, flaunting pink gums and no teeth.

Soon afterwards, Hiccup came up with a rather uncharacteristic idea. He decided to have a proper birthday celebration with all of his scaly family. Thus, before sundown, and with great effort, Hiccup caught four rabbits, though he had hoped for more.

Hiccup had actually managed to learn how to make snares for catching them, and his traps were fairly effective. However, perhaps unsurprisingly, he had always found himself releasing the rabbits, and then catching some others using his bow and arrows. He knew it was not wise to reuse his limited arrows so often, but he could still not bring himself to sink his knife into a trapped, squirming animal. As cowardly as it was, killing at a distance already took a heavy toll on Hiccup’s appetite after each hunt. And he _did_ need to hunt.

Once night had fallen, Hiccup made a large bonfire on the beach with the half-charred floor-boards that Toothless had ruined. He then gathered the dragons, and shared a taste of rabbit with each of them.

Although baffled by the strange situation, they accepted the small slivers of meat gratefully. Somehow, they all seemed to grasp the extra meaning behind the offer, despite their inability to fully understand the notion of a birthday, or Hiccup’s explanation of it.

Of all the dragons, Sharpshot, Bolt, and Twitch seemed the most eager to celebrate. They kept flying around the bonfire, before being joined by everyone else to dance in the night’s sky, even the timid Dreyri, and Frigga too, since Hiccup had convinced her to move the nest with the two eggs inside his own hut for protection.

Once on the ground again, as the bonfire popped and cracked with the last remnants of wood, Hiccup, who was now resting his back on the Night Fury’s belly for extra warmth, drank generous gulps of mead from Gobber’s waterskin, finishing all of it. This time, he felt the lovely, intoxicating effects thrice as much as he ever had.

Hiccup probably sung that night, and maybe Khnut’s two heads joined him too, belching funny noises into the air. Hiccup was not going to remember it clearly the next day, but he would always remember how grateful he felt for having those dragons as friends. Each and every one of them.

* * *

Warmly colored was the carpet dressing the forest’s floor. The leaves had long started raining from the trees around the hut, and all across the island. Only the pines and redwoods remained heavy with needles. The cold winds of mid-November had drained the green from all the other trees, their foliage now crunching on the ground under Hiccup’s boots.

Winter was close, and Hiccup was expecting the first snow to fall at any moment. Considering the Berkian climate, the snow was quite late, but this was the southern part of the Archipelago, and it was probably a good thing, since Hiccup did not feel completely organized for the season yet. He would constantly come up with new requirements. Sometimes the dried meat did not seem enough. Other times it was the flour.

This explained his decision to make one last trip to village of Thargran, to purchase some extra supplies. _Just to be safe,_ he thought. _After all, I’ve still got some silver_.

Hiccup had also another, unspoken reason why he wanted to make the trip. He was curious to see if Spitelout had searched for him on that island yet. If there was still no voice of a bounty for some scrawny northern heir, then Hiccup felt he would have been able to sleep more tranquil nights in the close future.

_Although_ , _if they haven’t looked for me here already, they won’t ‘till after the ice melts._

Wearing two of his three shirts under his thick but sleeveless fur-jerkin, Hiccup picked up his coin pouch, and his bow and arrows, which he always brought along when he left his island. He then mounted on Toothless’ back, and they left into the morning sky, but not before telling the other dragons to stay. They obeyed of course. They had gotten quite used to the human and Night Fury occasionally leaving by themselves for supplies.

 When Hiccup was in the village, he noticed there were still a couple of ships entering or leaving Thargran’s busy docks. They all had southern crests though, which Hiccup found reassuring. No sign of people chasing him (though he did not dare ask around), and none of the ships carried Berkian sails. Besides, Hiccup knew that, at this time of the year, Berk’s ships were already long moored. In fact, a good number of them had surely been lifted from the sea, and pulled onto the rough beaches east of the island, where they would be safer from the elements throughout the winter.

This being his last visit to a village for a while, Hiccup had asked Toothless to wait longer in the forest, so he could make sure to buy everything he needed, or might have needed. Reluctantly, the dragon had accepted, but only after making his rider repeat the promise that this was going to be the last time.

Hiccup ended up making three trips back and forth, from village to forest, for he did not want the villagers to get suspicious seeing a ragged-clothed boy leaving for the woods with a sack of flour, bundles of dried meat, stock-dried fish, salt, and vegetables all under his arms. Not that he could carry all that stuff at the same time anyway.

The sun was halfway down from its noon height when Hiccup was finally ready to go home, his coin pouch now much lighter. The flight was slower this time around; Toothless was encumbered by the supplies, which were all inside bundle of cloth, tied to the saddle. The wicker threads of Hiccup’s only basket had begun to come apart of late, and the basket looked dangerously close to breaking, so Hiccup had stopped using it whenever he flew.

So slow their flight was, and so time-consuming had Hiccup’s careful purchases been, that when the two companions spotted their island on the horizon, the sky was already purpling into dusk. Flat clouds reflected the final colors of daylight upon their tall, lone mountain. Night came much earlier this time of year.

Just then, as they approached, trying to stay on course despite the southern wind, something caught Hiccup’s eye. Perhaps it was the twilight playing tricks with him. Yet, high as he was, Hiccup could have sworn he saw tiny flickers of light coming from their beach. He asked the keen-eyed Night Fury for confirmation.

“Is Dreyri setting herself on fire again? Can’t you tell her that ravens are harmless? I mean… even if they peck her, she _has_ scales.”

_“I don’t think it’s Dreyri,”_ Toothless replied curtly _,_ filling Hiccup’s chest with unexpected worry, before picking up speed. _“Something is wrong.”_

“What do you mean wrong?” Hiccup asked nervously, his hands suddenly cold. “What do you see?”

Toothless either could not, or would not reply.

“What is it? Toothless? What happened?”

When the Night Fury failed to respond a second time, fear ran through Hiccup’s nerves like a chill. They lowered their altitude, approaching the beach much faster, until they were close enough for Hiccup to see as well, in spite of the darkness. Night had finally sneaked up on them.

There were thin wisps of smoke rising into the air. Some dragons- no, not just some dragons. Hiccup’s eyes could finally make them out as they closed the distance. Dreyri, large and crimson-scaled. Khnut, green, with his two long necks and tails. And two, three, no… _four_ small terrors. Sharpshot, Twitch, Bolt, and Frigga. They all lay sprawled across the sand, in the midst of burning debris.

With the full moon’s help, Hiccup could finally tell: the dragons weren’t sleeping.

“No, no, no, no… Toothless, faster!” Hiccup shouted, ready to jump from the saddle as soon as they touched ground.

Their hasty landing was almost a fall. Hiccup jumped off the Night Fury’s back before the cloud of dust and sand could even settle. He ran towards the closest of the other dragons, his heart punching his chest from the inside.

“Dreyri!” He yelled, taking the Nightmare’s head into his quivering arms, panting. Her scales were cold, though she still smelled of dragon-fire. Her jaw was clenched. Her eyes half-open, fixed, stuck... and lifeless.

That’s when Hiccup saw the wounds. Axe wounds. Sword wounds. Viking wounds. They were all over her body, and above her throat, where Hiccup was now touching. He laid down the heavy head as gently as he could manage, and stared at his hands. Wet, dripping, and dark, the blood painting his palms looked almost silver under the moon’s blessing. It was barely tepid.

Warm instead were the tears that began to flow on his cheeks. “No…” He whimpered breathlessly.

Hoping against all odds that the Nightmare was the only one who had died, Hiccup turned towards the Zippleback not ten paces away, but before he could get much closer, he stumbled to his knees, and covered his eyes to stop from seeing, smearing Dreyri’s blood on his own face in the process.

“No…” He whimpered again. “No!” He crawled forward.

One of Khnut’s heads lay severed, only two paces away from the neck, but still much too far. One wing was also broken, white bones sticking out, and the belly and chest were pierced in many places. The second head was lifeless too, exactly like the ones Hiccup was used to seeing after every raid on Berk. But also, so much different. It was this difference that now blurred Hiccup’s thoughts and vision. His brain felt as if stuffed with wool, near to the point of bursting.

He caressed the Zippleback’s remaining head for a few instants, hoping perhaps that he could feel some life under the scales. Closing his eyes, he got up, and trudged slowly, weakly, towards the terrors, who had all died near each other. Terrors always fought in groups.

There was no reason to check them from up close. Their small bodies were so maimed, so butchered, that they just could not be alive anymore. Corpses already. So suddenly. So soon.

In the span of half a day, when at first light they were all roaring and growling and snorting lively puffs of smoke, now they lay dead. _All_ of them, as if arranged along the beach to form the painting of a lost struggle. A battle. And a battle it had been.

Scattered on the sand were fallen scales, shimmering with the light of the moon and of the fires from the still-burning pieces of shields. The smell of smoke and blood lingered in the air, in a way that was already quite familiar to Hiccup. He could not help but fall on his rear then, and cry into his cupped hands, rocking himself back and forth, whispering his dragon-friends’ names. Moaning them. Screaming them.

Toothless approached him from behind, and, standing upright, he pressed a paw on his chest to pull him closer, into an awkward draconic embrace. Hiccup turned around and rammed his head on the dragon’s hard belly, again and again, sobbing, groaning, until Toothless stepped back, releasing a worried coo.

Toothless was saying something. He was talking to him, but Hiccup could not hear his friend’s inner voice anymore. Their minds would not connect.

How long Hiccup stayed like that, kneeling on the bloody sand before the patient Night Fury, wiping tears on his sleeves, trying to reason what had happened, what his eyes had just seen, he did not know. When he finally got up and looked around again, the burning shields had turned to ashes. A full moon remained as the only source of light. A much colder light.

“They all fought,” Hiccup said softly. “This wasn’t an ambush. They all fought together for a reason. They could have fled. Why did they stay and fight?” He asked under his breath.

It was Toothless who, without speaking, answered his question. He gestured with his head towards their shelter in the forest, just behind the tree-line. When Hiccup understood, he covered his mouth. His teeth bit on his tongue. He could not speak the reason, only think it, and hope it was not true:

_They tried to defend my home. Our home. All of them. Even Dreyri. Even Frigga!_ _But_ _if Frigga fought too, then it means her eggs…_ That, he could not even think.

Still, he got on his feet, and walked into the forest. Despite the darkness, many trees had shed their autumn foliage, allowing large beams of pale moonlight to pierce through, and illuminate something Hiccup would have much rather never seen.

When he did, he felt an abrupt wrenching inside, as if he’d lost his grip on something.

His small house, the shelter which had taken him more than two months to build, the only certainty he had of surviving the winter, the one project into which he had put more time and effort than anything else, now lay completely wrecked. Razed. Disfigured. Piles of wooden logs scattered on the ground, except for the central pillar, which still stood, almost like a monument.

Rummaging under the broken pieces, Hiccup noticed his belongings were gone. His basket. His journal. Gobber’s grooming kit. The crate. The spare tailfin. His winter supplies. His tools. Even the plank of charred wood Toothless had given him as a birthday present. Had he been raided?

_Who raids a deserted island?_ He wondered, confusion joining his other emotions.

That’s when Hiccup saw the eggs, or what remained of them. Looking away, he groaned through clenched teeth, as if in physical agony. Unfortunately, his suspicion was true. They had been crushed. The little terrors inside, waiting to hatch into the world, would never be born. Hiccup could feel his stomach turn, and his chest wrench, if possible, even more.

Then, it occurred to him. The Vikings who had done this had somehow gone for his shelter first, breaking the dragon-eggs, and had fought the dragons later. Otherwise, Hiccup was sure Bolt and Frigga would have tried to fly away with their future offspring. In fact, Hiccup hoped that none of the dragons would have fought at all, if Frigga’s eggs had not been crushed. He did not want to think they would have laid down their lives just for the sake of his house. He had done nothing to earn such loyalty.

That was still not enough to rid himself of the guilt that started to weigh heavily upon his stomach. They had all still fought like a family, a family Hiccup was responsible for gathering.

Hiccup realized how little he knew about the common dragons’ loyalty. He’d always been sure about Toothless, but Toothless was supposed to be the exception, the Night Fury would even say this of himself, though only in relation to other Night Furies. When it came to the other dragons, Hiccup was still so very blind.

_It is my fault then_. _They died because of me._

It was too much. His hut was destroyed, his belongings gone, and, apart from Toothless, his dragon-friends lay dead. And it was partly his fault.

_But only partly,_ he suddenly thought. _Those truly responsible are no longer here._

Wiping tears from his face, he hurried back to the beach, with Toothless warbling worriedly behind him. This time, Hiccup did not look away. He took in all of the horror that soiled his only home, his island, his shore, the sand of which he had enjoyed daily between his toes, and which was now soaked in blood. Hiccup allowed this sight to fuel the anger burning inside of him.

_Who did this? Who are they?_ He wondered with grim determination.

Hiccup picked up a piece of broken spear, but there were no signs that could lead him to the answer. No carvings. No symbols. If any other weapons had been broken, they had been recovered for the precious metal, and what remained of the painted shields had already turned to ash.

Giving Toothless the piece of weapon to sniff, he asked: “Who did this, Toothless?”

If the Night Fury replied at all, Hiccup could not tell. His inner ear had closed itself shut. His mind was in shambles, but he did not wait. He studied the moonlit shore.

Where the sea began, there were three deep grooves in the sand, which had yet to be erased by the waves. Three lines meant three keels, which meant three longboats, and by the look of it, they were of average size, with a single sail each on a single mast.

If it had been Spitelout and his men, Hiccup thought, then why were they no longer here? No, Spitelout was not stupid, he would have ambushed them already. Besides, did Spitelout have three boats? The number of people that had chased Hiccup on Balheim did not seem to suggest so.

“So? Who was it? Was it Spitelout? If not Spitelout, _who_ then?!”

The Night Fury’s reply could not be heard.

Hiccup threw the piece broken spear into the sea, roaring. As he did so, for the first time in his life, he became aware of a strangely new feeling: the lust for someone’s blood. He just didn’t know whose yet.

_It doesn’t matter who they are. They must pay._

The more Hiccup though about it, the more he felt rage replace his grief. It felt... good. Better than having to deal with his heart-wrenching sorrow. The anger was almost soothing, like a numbing balm, and Hiccup allowed it to envelop him.

“Toothless, can you follow their scent?” Hiccup asked. The question came out more as a demand.

Once again, there was no reply. Was Toothless even trying?!

“Just nod!” Hiccup shouted impatiently.

The dragon did so, but slowly, then let out an uneasy croon of uncertainty.

Hiccup only noticed the affirmative answer. “Then we are going after them,” he said as he prepared to leave.

He picked up his bow and arrows. He removed the bundle of new supplies, which was still tied to the Night Fury’s saddle. Finally, he mounted on the dragon, smearing bloodied sand on the stirrups with the stained soles of his boots.

Once ready, in a low, steely voice, Hiccup gave the curt command: “Go.”

Toothless turned his head, apprehension plain on his face. He crooned a troubled sound again. The Night Fury was attempting to connect their minds, Hiccup could tell, but the part of Hiccup that allowed him to stay sane, after everything he’d seen, did not want to hear what Toothless had to say.

“I SAID GO!” Hiccup shouted, punching the saddle.

Much too hesitantly for his rider’s mood, Toothless flapped his dark, bat-like wings, and lifted off from the ground, his snout pointing north.

Hiccup did not consider the direction. His mind was in a white-hot haze, the world engulfed in rage. He was only intent on finding the murderers aboard those ships, and perhaps the one within himself. He had his bow, and he had a dragon. Nothing else mattered.

The large, full moon, indifferent, lit their way to the place of vengeance, into the darkest side of night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The single-line poem at the beginning is an attempted translation of one of my favorite pieces of Hermetic poetry, an Italian literary style of the first half of the twentieth century. Though it clearly needs no explanation, the little piece of poetry is simply an allegory about the commonness of death. Credit goes to Giuseppe Ungaretti.
> 
> EXTRA NOTE (Birthday): In this AU, Hiccup's birthday is in autumn (specifically, in October), which is in conflict with book-canon, where he was actually born the 29th of February.
> 
> I placed his birthday in autumn for two reasons. The first is that in the movie-canon we don't have a specific date for his birthday. The second reason is to give better consistency to the events taking place during and before this story. To all canon-fanatics: I apologize for yet another seemingly unnecessary divergence.


	22. As South as South Goes

**(Toothless)**

  

Above them only night, stars and a full moon. Below them only sea and the sparks of moonlight, dancing on each small wave and ripple, producing a vivid, if fitful trail.

Apart from Hiccup’s, the smell of humans in the air was faint, almost nonexistent. Still, with the wind blowing northwards, it was likely the three Viking ships were sailing in that same direction, carrying most of their scents with them.

Toothless did not really wish to find those Vikings, but he did not disobey his rider’s command. It was not so much that Toothless disagreed with the unspoken plan. He did not mind killing a few murderous humans, especially for Hiccup’s sake. Moreover, despite being a Night Fury, the proudest and most solitary of dragons, he could not feel complete indifference at their winged friends’ deaths, though he could not really tell why. Had he truly begun to care for them too? It was more plausible that he cared about Hiccup, who _did_ actually care for them in turn. Or maybe it was a bit of both.

Even so, Toothless was not particularly eager to avenge their friends, for he did not think it was worth endangering his rider. What use was revenge, if Hiccup ended up getting hurt? Three ships meant a lot of humans, most of them likely weathered in combat. Toothless was confident in his own abilities, but Hiccup was no warrior; he had no scales, no armor. A stray spear, a wound gone bad, and they were both going to die. Not to mention the fact that Hiccup was not thinking straight; perhaps he was not thinking at all, and that’s what truly worried Toothless.

He kept flying north though, wrapped in worry and unease, and with that unexpected tinge of sorrow, budding in a part of his consciousness he did not remember having. He stalled as much as he could, sometimes changing direction ever so slightly, pretending to pick up a new scent, in order to delay their meeting with their enemies, without Hiccup noticing. Toothless was waiting for his rider’s mind to open up again, to calm down.

Unfortunately, he could not make the connection. Part of it was surely due to his own agitation. Yet, despite the boy’s weight on his back, Hiccup might as well have not been there at all. Toothless would occasionally turn his head to check on him.

Dark, dried blood covered Hiccup’s face. The blood was actually Dreyri’s, unwittingly applied by the boy’s stained hands whilst grieving, after witnessing the result of the slaughter. Fresh tears had also started to trail his cheeks again, guided backwards by their speed against the wind, leaving lines in the blood. Hiccup did not seem to notice or care about either. In fact, his expression was not one of sorrow anymore. Instead, despite the tears, his eyes held a strange, stern, distant look, an almost soulless gaze.

Their eyes met. Hiccup averted them quickly, but Toothless knew his rider’s mind was finally back. Nonetheless, he said nothing. He beat his wings, and waited patiently.

When Hiccup decided to speak, his voice came out as a tired moan: “What am I doing,” he said. It did not sound like a question; it was more like a lost fragment of some other conversation, perhaps one the boy was having within himself.

Toothless answered anyway: _“You want to kill them, right? We can do it from the sky. No need to get close. Some might survive, but I can destroy the ships from a safe distance.”_ He knew he could, he had enough fire in his lungs for three ships. It was not a particularly dangerous strategy, perhaps not dangerous at all with the cover of night.

“No,” Hiccup replied harshly, “they must know what they did. I _want_ them to know. I want them to see me. I want to see _them,_ before I decide.” Anger still lingered in the boy’s voice from before, but fresh uncertainty was beginning to transpire as well.

_You won’t get a chance to decide anything, if they kill you first!_ Toothless wanted to protest. He did not care about _how_ they exacted their revenge, if at all. Revenge was such an unnecessary danger. Even the small, distant grief he appeared to be harboring himself (much to his own surprise), was not enough to sway his opinion on the matter.

Toothless did not speak his mind though. Maybe, if he insisted, he could have managed to convince Hiccup to exact his revenge in a safer way. Maybe he could have even tried to convince him to turn back, and forget about revenge altogether. Maybe it was going work, if he took advantage of his rider’s pain and uncertainty, or if he just refused to fly straight. Yet, he did not want to be insensitive towards the hatchling, especially now.

Why he seemed to care so much about Hiccup’s feelings, however, in light of the danger that awaited them, was turning out to be a rather uncomfortable mystery, and a worrisome one too. Perhaps being concerned about Hiccup’s feelings was as important for his rider’s health as being concerned for his physical safety. It seemed like a legitimate way to rationalize it, though it was not the Night Fury way.

Wasn’t his own safety ever more important? Hadn’t it always been? Sure, he did care about Hiccup, and he did like it when Hiccup was happy, but wasn’t _he_ ultimately more valuable?

_I am a Night Fury, am I not?_ _Shouldn’t my own life always come first?_

It was a strangely unwelcome question, though he knew it was supposed to be an easy one to answer.

_Why am I even wondering about this? Of course I am a Night Fury! I have to be fast and selfish to survive. That is every Night Fury’s nature! I am going along with this human’s wishes for my own sake. I want him to be happy, so I can be happy. That is what I have been doing all along. That is what I am doing now! I am not really sacrificing anything, I am just contormizing… no, what was the word? Compartmizing? Comprimizing...?_

Alas, the answer did not seem to satisfy his uneasy conscience, and thus the question remained. A question that, he realized, had been secretly hanging at the back of his mind for nearly a year, unanswered.

Was he still true to his nature? Not on the outside perhaps, missing a tailfin as he was. But what about inside?

Was he still a Night Fury worthy of his black scales? And had he ever been able to answer that question before? Or had he always been as uncertain? Had he ever doubted his natural selfishness before meeting Hiccup? Besides, hadn’t he already reasoned out what his relationship with the little human truly entailed? He surely ought to have by now.

He knew he had lost his independence. At the same time, he knew he found the hatchling to be a pleasant companion, beside flying assistant. Hiccup was not _only_ ‘a means to an end’ _,_ as Toothless had conceded, both to his rider, and most importantly to himself. He had not lied when had said so. And yet, he also knew that, just a couple of months before, he would not have been willing to make that same concession.

But there was clearly something else as well, something troubling, too troubling to consider for a Night Fury, which was why Toothless forced all these doubts to settle in some corner of his mind, hoping, at the risk of being naive, that he was still as healthily self-centered as any Night Fury ought to be. That all he was doing was for his own sake first and foremost. That he had not really abandoned his egotistic nature. That he had not really committed that which was considered a sin for his special kind.

As the jumbled concerns traversed his thoughts, Toothless could only warble absently.

“I know, Toothless,” Hiccup chimed in, anticipating some of his objections. “But I can’t just let them go like that. Not after what they did.”

_“Then let me shoot at them from up high,”_ Toothless tried again. _“They will get what they deserve, and we will both be at a safe distance.”_

“No.” Hiccup shook his head.

Toothless wanted to sigh and growl and protest, but his complaint was cut off.

“I don’t want to kill anyone,” the boy continued.

Toothless frowned, a half-disbelieving, half-questioning coo escaping his throat.

“I wanted to,” Hiccup added quickly; the anger and uncertainty were still there, but he seemed strangely collected as he spoke now. “Just moments ago, I wanted to. Thor knows I did. But… I can barely kill rabbits, bud’. Killing people… even if they deserve it… I… It’s not something I can do.”

Toothless kept warbling questioningly, and, if possible, even more worriedly.

If Hiccup wasn’t planning to kill them, and if he wasn’t planning to turn back either, that could only mean he was planning to do something far more dangerous than Toothless was able to contemplate. He hoped he had understood wrongly.

_“But you will not have to kill,”_ he insisted. _“I will do it for you.”_

“No,” Hiccup said. “No more death. Not if I can help it.”

_“So, no one dies? Then why are we even going?”_

Hiccup’s following silence was as irritating, as it was frightening. Toothless realized he had reached new levels of worry as he asked: _“What are you planning, Hiccup?”_

The young Viking breathed in deeply, filling his voice with unanticipated confidence:

“Something I won’t regret.”

* * *

The strategy was indeed dangerous, though it was not as stupid as Toothless had been expecting. Foolhardy, yes, but not mindless. There was a certain amount of sense behind it, which Toothless found somewhat reassuring. It meant his rider had not gone mad with grief and rage; at least not entirely.

The plan could still go very wrong of course, but if that was the only way for Hiccup to find some retribution, then Toothless felt he had no choice but to go along with it, and do his best to keep the boy safe.

It was not much longer, before his sharp eyes spotted the ships, their white sails glowing faintly with reflected firelight, emitted by small braziers, which helped the sailors either keep warm, or keep track of each other in the night. As soon as he saw them, Toothless braced himself, and so did Hiccup, without any need for words.

As expected, the ships were three, sailing the calm waves in a triangular formation, with the slightly larger one leading the other two. They were long, but not very big, with hulls barely deep enough to store about a dozen barrels, under a single deck.

Getting closer, Toothless recognized the shape of the lightning dragon, drawn upon each sail. ‘ _Skrill’_ the humans called it, as Hiccup had revealed when they had found the same shape painted on the buried crate, which the boy had unearthed at the exact same spot where he had later decided to build the hut. Hiccup had repurposed the hole in the ground to raise the central pillar, the only part of the hut that was still standing.

Was the Skrill-painting a coincidence? Toothless began to wonder. He decided to ask Hiccup, though, he knew, now was not the time.

Silently, Toothless flew past the ships from up high, exploiting the cover of darkness. Meanwhile, he scanned the three ships’ decks, as Hiccup had instructed. Round, colorful shields hung from their perimeters. On the decks, there were crates and barrels tied together, and about ten to twelve Vikings for each ship. Some were dressed in armor, some in heavy pelts, some had both; all had weapons, and all wore tired faces. Most were awake, but a few appeared to be sleeping, lying unsteadily on makeshift beds of crates. Toothless caught the scent of drying blood.

Without being seen, he crossed the sky around their targets three times, when, finally, he found what he sought. Hiccup’s basket was stored amongst the crates of the leading ship.

Toothless informed his rider, who promptly straightened his back, and removed the already strung bow from his shoulder. The boy took an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it on the string, then held bow and arrow both in one hand, while he used the other to hold on to the saddle, before finally murmuring: “Let’s do this.”

Even without that trace of hesitation, which was unfortunately very present in Hiccup’s voice, Toothless could have still been able to sense Hiccup’s fear. He was worried too, but he had agreed to go along with Hiccup’s risky plan, and he was not going to hesitate. He would not hold back, if necessary. He had to protect his rider at all costs.

Toothless veered towards the two ships at the back. He flew further away from them, rose higher, then turned back and picked up speed, filling his lungs and throat with the right mixture of gas and air for four quick charges. The whistling sound he produced warned the Vikings, who began to yell from one ship to the other:

“Night Fury!”

“Take cover!”

“Get down!”

Whizzing through the air like an arrow, flying above both ships from west to east, from port to starboard, Toothless rained four shots of blue fire on them, one after the other. Two relatively tame blasts each, but very precise: one on their hulls, one on their single masts. The quick succession of blue-flamed explosions perturbed the night, setting the two sails ablaze, and cracking the sides of both ships, which began to slowly take in water.

Nodding grimly at the results, Hiccup directed Toothless towards the leading ship. The Vikings sailing on it had begun to unsheathe weapons and grab shields. Those on the two following boats had been doing so as well, but they had more serious problems now.

“Try to land on the head of the bow, if you can,” Hiccup said, then fully readied his weapon, letting go of the saddle to use both hands.

When Toothless perched himself atop the bow of the ship, which bobbed up and down with the sudden weight, making all crew-members lose their footing (and initiative), Hiccup pulled on the string, and pointed his arrow forward. Toothless kept his muscles tense like springs, and his fire-lungs ready to shoot at the first sign of aggression; this time, he prepared a much more powerful blast than all four previous ones put together.

Amongst gasps of surprise and outrage, and even fright, all the Vikings aboard turned ahead to see the black shape of a dragon they had never seen before, and, on its back, the figure of a ragged-clothed boy with an arrow pointed at them, auburn hair messed by the wind, face covered in dried blood, mounting the winged beast in a display most of those men and women would have only ever seen in nightmares.

There was a momentary silence. The ship’s small iron brazier cast fitful shadows on the deck, and upon the painted sail, illuminating the sailors’ faces. Toothless, however, did not need this light to be able to see the shock that marked their features. Some of the Vikings were too stunned to even move; they stood, gaping with hate and revulsion at the otherworldly sight, ignoring the two fires in the distance, and their comrades’ yells and efforts, as they tried to keep their own ships from both burning and sinking. Some other Vikings, alas, raised their weapons towards them.

“Do _NOT_ move!” Hiccup thundered; the unexpected strength and timbre of the shout made Toothless almost turn back to check if the voice truly belonged to his rider. The boy’s following words were still imbued with a commanding mixture of rage and urgency, but the surprising depth vanished. It was once again Hiccup’s gawky, nasal voice: “If you try anything, the dragon will shoot a hole through your ship’s hull faster than you can say Night Fury! Then _NONE_ of your ships makes it back home!”

Despite the anger in his tone, Hiccup spoke quickly, almost hurriedly. He was clearly trying to get his point across, before the first axe could fly. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the warning did not go unheard, although, for a moment, it seemed it would go unanswered.

Before long, a tall, dark-haired man stepped forward. His black beard was tied in three braids, entwined with decorative iron rings under a hard face. His wide, long-hilted, double-finned axe was still confidently fastened across his pelt-covered back. Unlike most of the crew, he seemed unafraid of the strange attackers. Toothless could not help but deepen the low growls in his throat.

“Ya’re  _him,_ ” the man hissed, moving closer threateningly, albeit alone. “Ya’re the dragon-rider.”

Toothless snarled, letting steaming saliva drip from between his bared teeth. The man stopped on his steps, but kept talking: “Ya’re the one they talk about! I thought it was a joke. Thor help us all! The son of Stoick the Vast… on the _Night Fury._ " The man spat disdainfully, while mutters of “traitor!” and “filth!” filled the throats of the other Vikings on the ship.

“What is the Archipelago’s most dishonorable turncoat doing _here?_ ” The black-bearded man continued, spite filling his voice, and twisting his mouth.

Hiccup took his time before replying. Was he swallowing?

_Predators should never swallow their spit!_ Toothless thought to himself, worriedly. _They must let it out. All animals know this. Even this Viking man does._

Still, Toothless could not clearly see what his rider was doing; he did not dare take his eyes off their enemies for more than a heartbeat. Thankfully, he could feel rage filling the boy again, when finally, using almost the same imperious voice as before, Hiccup shouted back:

“Why should I _not_ be here?! You destroyed my home! You took my things! You killed my _friends!_ ”

It was not fear that widened the man’s eyes, first with surprise, then utter hatred; it was sudden realization. Ignoring the arrow pointed at his chest, he barked: “So it was _yer_ hut! Ya made those dragons attack us! Ya call them _friends!_ Fuckin’ Loki-spawn!” He spat again. “They killed three of my men because of _you!_ I should have yer head thrown at yer father’s feet, and crushed before ‘is eyes!” The naked disgust on the man’s face suddenly transformed into a lopsided grin. “Knowing Stoick for a man of honor, he might even reward me.”

Ignoring the man’s words with what Toothless could tell was a strenuous effort, Hiccup went on talking at the top of his lungs, so that everyone could hear: “Your comrades’ ships are sinking! Their sails are on fire. More will die, unless you save them in time. If you want them to return to their families, before they freeze and drown, if you’d _all_ rather not swim on your way back, you will do _exactly_ as I say.”

“We’re Berserkers!” The same man shot back daringly. “The proudest Vikings in the Archipelago! Ya think a little swim in the moonlight will scare _us_ , when the prize could be the Night Fury’s own skull, and a seat at Odin’s table?”

“You want to kill me and my dragon?” Hiccup replied quickly, still loudly. “You can try. Maybe you’ll even succeed. But not before there’s a hole in your ship. Even proud Berserkers will freeze to death in this sea. None of you will see daybreak, if you decide to swim. So, think carefully. Give me back the basket you took, and no one else has to die. Your comrades are sinking as we speak. If I were you, I’d save my strength for rescuing them. What would you rather do: go back to your families and tell them how you survived seeing the infamous Night Fury, or would you rather never see your families again?”

From the back of the ship, where a man’s body was stretched out atop the crates, a pale, blonde-haired woman stepped slowly forward. Toothless thought her handsome for a human, at least by what he believed were Hiccup’s tastes. She was slender, but also older than Hiccup, taller. The woman was wearing a combination of white sheepskins and chainmail. There was fear in her scent, and grief, but neither emotions appeared on her face. She was scowling.

“Who’s to say the dragon won’t shoot us anyway?!” She shrieked angrily, glaring at Hiccup. In her one hand was a spear, her knuckles white around the shaft, in the other was a blood-spattered shield. Blood covered her hands too.

There was a tense pause, then Hiccup answered, addressing not just the woman, but all of the crew: “If I wanted to kill you, Toothless would have done it from the sky already. You all know how powerful a Night Fury’s fire can be. Those two ships would already be at the bottom of the sea, had I wanted them to. But I didn’t come here to kill. Just give me what I want, and I won’t have to.”

Hiccup spoke the words with surprising decisiveness. At the same time, it looked as if he was going to be sick, especially after listening to the woman. He seemed out of breath. His elbow had begun to shake with the effort of keeping the bowstring pulled. Toothless could feel both how nervous, and how angry his rider truly was inside. The feelings transpired on the boy’s face as a crazed, twisted mixture, which, along with the bloodshot eyes from all the previous crying, the actual dragon’s blood smeared across his face, and the ragged, feral look, was clearly giving his opponents pause. In fact, for a while, nobody spoke; not on _this_ ship at any rate.

Though he was still growling, Toothless felt almost unnecessary for the purposes of intimidation. He decided to growl louder, and make smoke pour steadily out of his nostrils.

The wait ended when the black-bearded man produced a short chuckle. A still disdainful, but somehow also amused grin stretched his lips. He then glanced back at another man, and gave an almost imperceptible nod. The other man went to the back of the ship, scowling, before bringing Hiccup’s basket. He did so without any haste. It was as if some of these humans did not care about the other sinking ships. Were they just pretending? If they were, Toothless thought, they were very good at it.

Slowly, Hiccup softened the grip on his bow, then tucked away the arrow, and wore the bow across his shoulders. As Toothless had expected, his rider slid off his back, and onto the deck.

Toothless did not like it, but there was no other choice. Hiccup had to tie the basket to the saddle. Still, after crawling lower on the deck to keep his rider close, Toothless found himself contemplating a hundred strategies, in case things went badly. In case it was all a trap. Without Hiccup on his back, he could not fly away at a moment’s notice anymore.

_If they attack him, I can blast the entire ship in the middle, but the fire will burn Hiccup too. I could wrap my wings around him, but we will probably fall both into the sea. It would not be a problem for me, but if Hiccup gets wet in this cold, he might die before we can find land again._

He felt stuck; there was nothing useful he could do if things went south. Now, all was up to Hiccup, and his convoluted plan to force their enemies to collaborate.

Amazingly, the boy’s strategy seemed to be working. It seemed that his rider’s words, or his tone, or his appearance, or perhaps all of these things put together, had somehow managed to make the plan succeed. The Vikings were actually waiting for them to leave. They were glaring daggers at them, but that was all they did. Not once did Toothless lower his guard of course.

As soon as the basket was secured, just as Hiccup mounted again, the captain of the ship spoke with a voice that, Toothless thought, somehow held a hint of admiration, mixed with the hatred and spite:

“Ya really are Stoick’s boy, aren’t ya.”

Hiccup gave the man a tired, somber look.

“Not anymore,” he said, and, finally, with a flick of that special stirrup, the prosthetic tailfin was unfurled, and Toothless jumped into the night.

* * *

The darkness hung close above their heads, now that the clouds covered both stars and moon. An oppressive silence permeated their return. Halfway back, Toothless was still trying to find something appropriate to say. He only did, when he noticed his rider was shivering.

_“Are you cold?”_ He asked.

“I’m fine,” Hiccup replied curtly. Then, as if to make up for his bluntness, he added: “Maybe a little, but… I don’t know. I don’t think it’s from the cold. I just can’t seem to control it. I think it’s passing, though. I’ll be fine.”

Toothless warbled concern nonetheless _. “We should fly lower just in case,”_ he suggested, hoping Hiccup would snap out of his somber trance, and speak some more. Alas, Hiccup said nothing for the rest of their flight.

Toothless could still feel the waves of distress radiating from his rider. He had hoped for them to just vanish, after the boy had gotten his rather strange form of revenge, but the only emotion to disappear had been the anger, of which there was no longer a trace.

All that remained now, was sorrow. It made Toothless want to coo soothingly, but he refrained from doing so. Not only was the impulse an embarrassing one for any Night Fury, (though Toothless seemed capable of ignoring the fact when it came to his rider), it also felt inappropriate at the time. Toothless did not know _how_ he knew, but he was sure Hiccup was in no mood for pity.

When they landed back on their island, they were once again met with the sight of their dead friends, sprawled along the beach. Toothless feared for Hiccup’s reaction, but if the boy was feeling something, he did not show it.

With an odd sort of composure, after freeing Toothless from the basket and flying-contraptions, Hiccup began to work. He started carrying the broken pieces of wood, large and small, from his wrecked shelter, all the way to the beach.

_Of course,_ Toothless thought. _He is cold. He needs a fire, and he does not have a hearth anymore._

Yet, when Toothless moved to light the pile of wood, Hiccup stopped him.

_“Is this not enough wood for tonight?”_

The boy shook his head. “It’s not for me.”

Toothless let out a perplexed warbling noise.

“It’s for…” Hiccup looked away, “Dreyri and Khnut,” he clenched his teeth, “and Sharpshot, and…” a sharp intake of breath interrupted him. Then, after clearing his throat, he continued, forcing the words out in a hoarse rasp: “…and Twitch, and Bolt, and Frigga, and even her-” his throat caught, and he stopped speaking. He was sniffing, and was trying to hide it.

The boy was making a pyre for the dragons. Toothless already knew about the human custom of burning the dead; his rider had mentioned it a few times. They were not going to burn a mere human though. The Terrible Terrors were one thing, but Khnut and Dreyri were much bigger than any Viking. The pyre needed to be much bigger too. Toothless decided to help.

“No,” the boy stopped him again. “ _I_ must do this,” he said determinedly.

_“Alone? Why?”_

“Because… it’ my fault they are dead,” Hiccup said, but the sudden austerity in his voice was obviously forced, fragile.

_“What do you mean it is your fault?”_ Toothless asked. _“You did not kill them.”_

“Maybe not, but I should have known…” Hiccup paused to take a deep, quivering breath. “I should have known this would happen. Those supplies we found, remember? The buried crate.”

_“The one with the Skrill-drawing. So, it belonged to those Vikings?”_

The boy nodded slowly, turning back towards the beach with yet another armful of timber. “I should have known Berserkers would come here at some point. I thought they had left that old crate years ago, just for emergencies; in case of a shipwreck, or… _something_.”

They both emerged from the forest, Toothless always hard on his rider’s heels.

“I didn’t think they’d stop here regularly,” Hiccup continued, raising his voice. “I didn’t know Berserkers traded with the south, but… after seeing that crate, I should have. I _should_ have known, Toothless! How could I have been so stupid!”

Furiously, he tossed the planks he had in his arms towards the growing pile, missing the target. He looked at the result, and, wiping at his tears, he sighed once more, before picking up the pieces.

_“I think it is stupider for you to blame yourself, for something you did not do,”_ Toothless pointed out; he was not trying to be comforting, he actually disagreed. _“If you did not know, then it cannot be your fault.”_

Hiccup’s mouth opened, ready to complain, but no sound came out. Instead, the boy stared at their dead friends on the beach, his sullen eyes wandered from Dreyri to Frigga, searching for their shapes in the darkness.

“They were right, you know? On Berk I mean. I _am_ a danger to everyone around me. A walking accident. I deserve my _stupid_ name.”

Hiccup stopped to kneel on the sand beside Khnut’s lifeless body. He caressed the Zippleback’s lone, unsevered head.

“I don’t deserve friends, or a family,” Hiccup whispered, then turned to him: “Even _you_ did not come out unscathed from meeting me.” A dry, despondent chuckle escaped the young Viking’s chest, before he resumed his task.

Toothless was suddenly at a loss. What was he to say now? Should he argue more? He was not even sure whether he ought to disobey and help the boy out, or disobey and stop him, or just keep following him back and forth, as he carried the wood by himself, like some diligent Terror, building a nest for the dead.

Toothless had that feeling of being stuck once again, useless. Then, something suddenly occurred to him. If nothing else, perhaps he could still provide some helpful advice:

_“Instead of bringing all the wood here,”_ he began, _“why don’t we just take their bodies where the hut was?”_

Hiccup stopped on his steps, holding a broken, wooden pole, which he was about to lay down. He sighed, closing his eyes.

“ _Thor’s…!_ You are right, I… I should have thought of that,” he softly thumped his forehead on the pole. “I’ll just add more wood by cutting down the surrounding trees, to avoid wildfires,” he whispered to himself, sighing once again, before taking back every log and branch and plank that he had already moved.

The Terrors were easy to carry; at least, what remained of them was. In fact, their bodies were all but minced, yet Hiccup did not flinch as he performed the gruesome task. Khnut and Dreyri were not in as grisly a state, but Hiccup could not lift them anyway, so he asked for Toothless' help to drag them atop the remnants of his house.

That done, Hiccup reached for his basket. It had a gash on the side, and the straps at the back were pulling at the flaky wicker in a troubling way. Hiccup emptied it on the forest’s ground, ignoring the damage. He found his waterskin, and drank thirstily, then paused, leaned away, threw up, and drank again, trying to hold it in this time.

Toothless forced himself not to intervene, or even coo with worry. He concentrated on the spilled contents of the basket. Inside it, their raiders had hastily crammed what they had managed of Hiccup’s belongings. It wasn’t everything of course. There were most of the things they had carried from Berk. Hiccup’s journal. The spare tailfin. The two waterskins, Gobber’s grooming kit, the bandages, some of the clothes, pieces of cloth, and just one of the pelts. Not Hiccup’s pot though, not his pan, and none of his other tools.

Fortunately, a few of the tools were still on the island. The saw and hatchet lay upon a large tree-stump in the forest, where the boy used to cut his firewood. Hiccup trudged towards them, guided by the moonlight, which peeked occasionally from behind the clouds. Not that Hiccup needed much light; he had long memorized that part of the forest, down to the smallest tree-root, or rock, berry plant, or thorny bush. After finding the useful tools, he began cutting down all the trees surrounding the wreck of his hut.

With his teeth, Toothless carried the slender trunks to the pile. Hiccup did not complain about the help this time; he had clearly realized how much larger a pyre had to be to burn dragon bodies, for they were not only bigger, but also coated with fireproof scales.

“There’s not enough wood,” the boy said, time and time again. And it was true. The pyre was not big enough yet. So, Hiccup kept gathering and piling up more and more wood around those scaly corpses, until there was no tree or sapling around their former house for nearly a wingspan.

_"Your hands are bleeding,”_ Toothless suddenly observed, apprehension as plain in his inner voice as he could make it. He could not hold back any longer. _“Stop now. You can finish tomorrow."_

“No I- I want it done before first light,” Hiccup replied.

Despite his rider’s determination, Toothless decided he could not allow him to go on. The boy was clearly cold and exhausted. He had begun to stumble with every third step.

With a couple of small shots, Toothless lit the pyre, feeling no guilt for disobeying.

_“You can add more later,”_ he said. _“This much wood will last until the sun is high. You must rest and warm yourself now. Are you not cold?”_

Hiccup lacked the strength to rebuke him for his initiative. Even more worrisome was that Hiccup seemed actually taken aback when he finally looked at his hands, and saw them shivering. Droplets of blood were sliding off fresh cuts and scratches. His shoulders sank at the sight.

With a defeated sigh, Hiccup found the only pelt they had managed to bring back. Using a piece of rope salvaged from the wreck, he tied the pelt around himself, like a mantle. He then sat on the ground, at a safe distance from the bonfire, its flames now picking up, and growing higher.

Toothless coiled himself around his rider, allowing him to rest in the crook between his left forepaw and his neck. They did not sleep, nor did they speak. They both stared at the large, whispering flames fending off the night, until they burned as high as the trees around them.

Just before the earliest lights of dawn, plump, white flakes of snow began to fall from the sky, landing placidly on their island, without a breath of wind to disturb their gentle descent. Hiccup did not look up; he had finally fallen asleep. Toothless licked the boy’s cheek, then protected him with a black wing, shielding him from the cold and the morning light, until noon.

The bodies of the four Terrible Terrors had been consumed by the flames quickly. Unfortunately, the wood had not been enough to fully burn the Nightmare and Zippleback. The pyre had to be bigger. Much bigger. Thus, Hiccup spent half his waking time adding more wood to the fire, wedging logs and twigs and branches between the simmering carcasses. They did burn eventually, but it took two days, before all but the bones and scales had turned to ash.

Four times had the fire died, and four times it had to be rekindled. Before long, the smell of seared flesh had soaked the forest whole. Hiccup did not complain, though he often coughed, despite his attempts to stay upwind. For two days, he ate from his latest purchase of dried meat and stockfish (the only batch that he still had), then spent the rest of the time either chopping more wood, or wrapped inside his pelt, leaning on Toothless’ chest. Not many words were exchanged for those two days.

The heat of Hiccup’s fiery friends kept the winter at a distance, melting the snow before it could pile up in that artificial clearing. Then, after the second afternoon, the last flicker of warmth went out, and winter embraced the two companions, just as it had the whole island, which was now all dressed in white.

For the first time in nearly five moons, it felt as if they were alone again, just the two of them. It was a new feeling for Toothless. There was a strange emptiness around them. Was Hiccup feeling it too?

_“What will you do now?”_ Toothless asked, as they watched the fire die for the final time. _“Will you build another house?”_

“No,” Hiccup said softly. “No more houses, or Vikings.”

Toothless cocked his head, perplexed.

“We can’t stay here,” Hiccup explained. “I can’t let this happen again. It’s not safe for me, or you, or anyone else around me. Besides, winter is finally here.” He looked up at the still falling snow. “Without some shelter, I won’t be able to survive the colder months, and there’s no time to build another. And… even if the winter doesn’t kill me, now that the Berserkers know where we are, assuming they don’t come back for revenge, you can be sure Spitelout will find out, and soon my dad will too, maybe even before the seas freeze. There’s just no way we can stay.”

Toothless nuzzled his rider’s temple affectionately. It felt like the right thing to do. _“Then? Where will we go? South again?”_

“Not just south,” Hiccup said. Was there a hint of excitement in his voice? “We’ll go as south as south goes. We’ll go where winters are as warm as summers.”

Hiccup smiled at Toothless for the first time in two days. A true, sweet, precious smile. Then, finally, he announced:

“We will go to the mainland.”


	23. The Wicked Waters

**(Hiccup)**

 

A soft wind combed through tall, slender trees, the forest swinging, breathing, like the land’s own lung, in and out, north and south. Looking straight up, the tips of pines danced, their needles brushing whispers against each other. The sky was clear behind them, a canvas of cold azure. It wasn’t snowing anymore.

Looking down, the former carpet of autumn leaves had been utterly blanketed by white. Fresh snow covered every step, every nook, from the mountain’s top, to the sand of their beach. A white winter, after a blood-red fall.

_Fitting_ , Hiccup thought, observing the island that, like many others, he could not make his home.

Hiccup had spent most of the last few days dwelling purposelessly into the muffled forest, absorbing its lonely beauty, alone, bound with desolation. Around him, the whole island was silent, suspended; no waves echoing from the shore, no birds singing, no dragons. He could almost hear the trees speak, wood creaking mutedly. It helped him think, and mourn a little longer, which seemed like the proper thing to do, before leaving this place as well. He needed to rid himself of the strange emptiness that had set in the pit of his stomach.

Even after the first couple of days, Hiccup still found himself struggling against the occasional but inescapable pang of grief for Dreyri and Khnut, and for Bolt, Twitch, Sharpshot, and Frigga too, and even for her eggs. Hiccup had been eager to see the two baby Terrors hatch; he had enjoyed wondering what color they would turn out to be.

Now, he wished he had never found out; they had been green, and a rare, beautiful purple, underneath all the red of blood, of course. He could not allow himself to forget, however, lest he made the same mistake again. He was unable to forget anyway, the images would sneak up on him at random, when he ate, when he flew, when he dreamed. And, when the images came, guilt and sorrow followed close behind.

Every night, before sleep, Hiccup would feel his chest tighten with those dreadful memories, no matter how hard he snuggled against the Night Fury’s warm chest. Some of the nights, his stomach would cramp, and he’d get up to lose his meal. He would then frown at the result on the ground, and blame himself for the waste of precious food. After all, most of his supplies were still on the Berserker’s ship. He had only retrieved his basket.

He no longer cried, however, as he hiked into the forest; he was tired of crying. Besides, mourning for his friends was not the sole purpose of his solitary walks. He was also trying to divorce his hopes from the blissful image of a life on that island. It wasn’t easy. Nearly two months before, in September, when he had just finished building his hut, Hiccup had been certain that he had found his true home, that his journey had reached its final destination.

Alas, he needed to leave again now. He had told Toothless so as well, but he had yet to make his final preparations. He was stalling, hesitating.

Leaving this island was not like leaving the others, not even like leaving Berk. In fact, Hiccup was not going to leave a mere island this time, but the whole Archipelago. It felt like exiting the known world. Few were the Vikings who would ever contemplate the idea, and even fewer those who were said to have gone through with it. As it happened, he was going to become one of them.

Of course, his current hesitation stemmed also from another, deeper preoccupation. Perhaps, he thought, as a dragon rider, he was not truly destined to ever find a home, at least not for long.

That was the main reason why Hiccup had been wandering alone into the forest for those last few days, bracing himself against the cold, with his only pelt around his shoulders, his breath steaming in the winter air. He needed to accept that possibility, and, slowly, as the days of mourning passed, he decided to embrace it. In fact, the change of scenery almost began to appeal to him, eventually overcoming his hesitation.

_It’s not like I have a better choice now, right?_ Hiccup thought.

Maybe he was meant to perpetually travel the world, discovering new places. Places that all the people he knew had likely never seen, and would likely never see. Even his father. The notion felt sad and exciting at the same time. He could experience lands, fate would never bring any Viking to in their lifetime, but which he could see in their stead, and flying at that. Lands that only the heroes of great stories and myths were supposed to visit. Perhaps it would even help him forget about his recent misfortunes, and the less recent ones as well. He was going to leave everything and everyone behind, except for his only friend.

To travel so much and so far was not a common thing to most folk, even Viking chiefs or heirs. Travelers, and especially their ability to tell unheard stories, were thus always held in great regard. Even traders had similar reputations, like the famed Johann. It made Hiccup feel somewhat special, in a good way this time.

Maybe it was not so bad to become a traveler, a wanderer, even though the prospect of a home and family still lingered in his heart, repressed. After all, the life of a wanderer was as exciting, as it was frightening. The exciting part was what finally convinced him, after a week of stalling and mourning, to pack up his things, and tell Toothless, who had been waiting patiently all those days, that the time had come to leave the Archipelago.

The dragon looked very pleased with the decision. After all, they had not flown much lately.

Hiccup took one last bath in the broiling spring by that crevice in the mountainside. The heat reinvigorated him, but, in part, it also saddened him. Would he ever be able to have a hot bath again? Outcasts were not supposed to afford such luxuries. Were vagabonds? Hiccup surely hoped so.

The sun had yet to reach its noon height, when Hiccup finished securing his basket on the saddle. It was a bit lighter than before, ever since he had retrieved it from the Berserkers’ ship, but perhaps it was better this way. The basket did not look like it could endure many more leagues in the sky whilst full. Hiccup was still thankful he could count his most treasured belongings inside of it.

Unfortunately, one precious thing that he had failed to retrieve from the Berserkers was Toothless’ birthday present, the carved plank of charred wood. He would have been unable to travel with it, he knew, but he still disliked the idea of it being in the hands of those Vikings. There was nothing he could do about it now.

It was midday, when they finally left the island. Hiccup did not look back once; his stare was pinned towards the southern horizon. He felt suddenly in a hurry to leave the Archipelago, fearing he would change his mind.

Hiccup told Toothless to fly towards the next island, trusting his draconic instincts. He did not care what island it was going to be; any kind of island was merely a stepping stone for reaching the mainland. Of course, Hiccup did not want to run the risk of land-hunting his way across the Wicked Waters. He was hoping to find one of the southernmost villages, where he could ask for some directions.

This far south, Vikings were bound to possess at least _some_ knowledge for reaching that foreign land. In fact, ever since New Balheim, as Hiccup had managed to overhear, people mentioned the mainland in much less ambiguous terms.

As they flew, the weather remained clear, the sun softening the winter’s bite, allowing the two travelers to easily spot a cluster of tiny islets where to rest for the afternoon. After asking Toothless to catch some fish, Hiccup chose to land on the largest islet, near its center, where the land was higher, though rockier. He wanted to have a clear view of the horizon.

_Just a precaution,_ he thought.

“Tired yet?” Hiccup asked when he dismounted. He was joking, of course; they had flown for much longer spans in the past.

Toothless replied with an insulted squint of his eyes, and opened his maw, letting go of Hiccup’s share of fish. Two haddocks flopped wetly on the ground.

“ _Just_ asking,” Hiccup said defensively. “Who knows how long we’ll have to fly before we find the next village.”

The dragon huffed. _“I can fly for as long as you can steer my tail. Instead, how long do you plan to stay when we find the next village?”_

“Not long. As soon as I make sure we have the direction right, I’ll come back. The hardest part will be finding someone who will talk to me, _without_ becoming suspicious, possibly not one of the locals. I’m hoping for some trader. Can’t be _too_ hard.”

_“You realize Spitelout might have already been there before us. Right?”_

“I know,” Hiccup sighed, “but, unless he is planning to spend the whole winter away from Berk, he has probably gone home already. I doubt we’ll come across him.”

_“He might have left someone to wait for you though,”_ Toothless pointed out, while helping his rider gather firewood. _“He could have also told the ‘locals’ about the ‘banty’.”_

“‘Bounty’,” Hiccup corrected, “and I don’t think a Berkian would fit in with these southerners for a whole winter. In any case, I’ll be careful.”

Toothless nodded. He seemed reassured, though Hiccup knew his friend was holding back his apprehension. Shifting some broken twigs under one arm, Hiccup used his free hand to softly pat the dragon’s snout.

“Don’t worry. I’ll have my bow with me. This time, if someone _does_ chase me, I’ll shoot.” He smiled.

Toothless raised one scaly eyebrow in an expression of pleasant surprise. _“Good,”_ he said approvingly, before trotting forward, sniffing his way around a corner in the steep mountainside, in search of more wood to harvest for the fire.

Hiccup followed him, trying not to slip on the irregular ground, which was mostly made of moss-covered stone and loose pebbles. In fact, the whole island was uneven, marked by dangerous cliffs that reached all the way to the shore, speckled only by the occasional patch of grass and thorny shrub. The vegetation was sparse, more so near the highest point, where they had landed. Caves were plentiful though.

It was before the entrance to one such cave that Hiccup found Toothless, frozen on his steps. The Night Fury was staring at something, as Hiccup noticed when he made his way beside him.

“What’s wrong?” Hiccup asked.

Toothless did not reply. Following the dragon’s intense look, Hiccup found what had drawn his friend’s attention. Just outside the large cave’s mouth, concealed by old moss, and by the shadow of the cliff above, lay two large, winged skeletons, one at the other’s side.

Hiccup nearly jumped back, thinking them alive for an instant. He had recalled the risky encounter with the other moss-covered dragon on Old Balheim, and his muscles had prepared to spring. These two dragons, however, had clearly been dead for a long time, their skulls’ wide eye-sockets staring emptily. Hiccup began studying the old remains, and a sudden knot formed in his chest. Or perhaps it was the knot in his friend’s chest he felt; he wasn’t sure.

“Are those… Night Furies?” Hiccup murmured, looking back at his friend. He did not need an answer. Although they seemed slightly larger than Toothless, their shapes were unmistakable.

“Bud’? Are you alright?”

When Toothless looked at him, his features softened. _“Of course,”_ he said with a purposeful mien of calm, _“Night Furies can die too.”_

“Yes, but… you said you’ve never met another Night Fury. Seeing two, like… _this_. Are you sure you are alright?”

_“It is a bit strange,”_ Toothless conceded. _“But it does not bother me,”_ he added quickly, then turned away, and went on to break more wood from the couple of saplings ahead.

He wasn’t lying, at least about not being bothered by their deaths, Hiccup could tell, but there was clearly something Toothless was not saying. Something had happened there, and while his friend was busy breaking branches for the fire, Hiccup took a closer look at the two moss-covered skeletons.

One of the Night Furies had been likely killed by a fallen rock from the cliff above, the dragon’s side and ribs crushed under the impact of the heavy boulder.

_Baldur’s luck,_ Hiccup thought sadly, taking a few steps back from the cave’s entrance. The uneven cliff above might have still been brittle. Then, Hiccup looked at the second Night Fury. Its skeleton seemed quite intact; the fallen boulder had killed only one of the two dragons. Why had the other died then? And how?

Before he could relay the conundrum to his friend, Hiccup recalled something.

_‘We don’t have families,’_ Toothless had once said. _‘We always fly alone.’_

Had Toothless lied? It seemed unlikely. But if it was true that Night Furies were solitary dragons, then what were the odds of finding two of them dead right next to each other? It made little sense. According to what Toothless had said, mating was supposed to be the only time when two Night Furies were together. But again, what were the odds? And again, how had the second dragon died?

When Toothless returned with a mouthful of broken branches and twigs, Hiccup was ready to spill all those questions. Yet, as soon as he saw the somber cast in the dragon’s large eyes, he found he could not voice the words.

_“Can we light the fire somewhere else?”_ Toothless asked.

Hiccup found himself agreeing without protest, as if tasting the unease in the dragon’s request. After one last glance towards the two old skeletons, Hiccup set up camp back at their landing spot, where he had left his fish. While they could no longer see the remains of the two Night Furies, Hiccup was still constantly aware of their presence.

Something was wrong with what he had witnessed, he could feel it, but he could also feel his friend’s deep unease on the matter, and the latter sensation was the stronger one, so Hiccup decided not to pry, forcing his curiosity to sit quietly at the back of his mind.

As he chewed on his bland meal, serving himself hot slabs of haddock, with his knife in place of a spoon, Hiccup became abruptly aware of the silence that had fallen between them. He had not said a word since he had sat down, all for fear of leading the conversation in a direction Toothless was pointedly trying to avoid.

He stopped chewing, ready to break that silence. Yet, when he saw Toothless raise an uncharacteristically reserved, sideways glance, Hiccup resumed chewing, and tried to find interest first in the burning wood, then in the rocky landscape, then towards the horizon, his eyes darting around nervously as he finished eating one of his two haddocks.

Although his bony buttocks could have used a bit more rest from the saddle, Hiccup rose as soon as he was done eating, dusting himself off. He cleaned his knife, first on a piece of burning wood, then on his woolen breeches, and he finally thrust the blade back into its sheath by the rope he used as a belt.

“Let’s go. Night falls quick this time of year,” he said, noticing Toothless was even more eager to leave this place than he was.

Apart from setting and resetting their direction, the two of them did not speak. They both scanned the horizon, flying attentively, until their shadow upon the sea’s surface had reached far enough east, to their left, that Hiccup could no longer see it. The sun was setting fast.

Before Hiccup could voice the suggestion to rest for the night on the next rock in their path, whatever the size, Toothless crooned softly.

“Found something?” Hiccup asked.

_“Yes, there,”_ the dragon replied, picking up speed and banking smoothly to the right.

Hiccup noticed a hazy silhouette in the distance, an island. “Is there a village?”

_“I can smell humans,”_ Toothless said. Then, betraying some worry, he added: _“Lots of them.”_

Sucking in a breath of trepidation, Hiccup prepared for what was hopefully going to be his last visit to a Viking village for a long time. He shuddered, though it was partly from the cold.

Every time evening caught them flying against the winter winds, even the Night Fury’s warmth was not enough to keep Hiccup from shivering. This evening, after flying for so long, he could barely feel his fingers. His knees and thighs were numb, and the sole certainty that he still had a nose resided in the constant sniffling of his nostrils; only his lips were burning, alternately parched and cracked by the wind, and then inflamed by his own tongue.

By the time they closed in on the island, the sun had set completely, though Hiccup could still see the village, bathed by cooling twilight. A swarm of tiny firelights, hearths, candles, oil-lamps, were starting to bead on the steep hillside, from the thick cluster of wooden buildings at the top, all the way down to the natural crescent-shaped harbor by the shore.

It was the most crowded harbor Hiccup had ever seen. More than fifty ships and longboats were moored at the docks, so tightly crammed, that they bounced on each other as the gentle waves of evening washed against the rocky coast.

The sea, warmed by a whole day of sunshine, was already starting to steam with the abrupt chill of nightfall. Slowly, thick mist began to cradle the many wooden hulls, and rise up the lower streets of the village. The sea-mist parted where a few ships were still moving, reaching the docks for the night, their sails displaying crests Hiccup had either seen only very recently, or that he was seeing today for the first time.

His attention was caught by a ship flaunting the latter kind of sails. On its stern, big, carved runes spelled the words _‘Aegir’s Blessing’_. There were also two more ships of similar size already docked in the harbor, with their sails rolled up. These three ships were the biggest Hiccup had ever seen, towering easily over every other longboat. They were even bigger than Johan’s so-called Mare of Misery, which was already so large, it had room for actual sleeping chambers below the main deck, and even more room for storage underneath, deep within its hull.

Two of those larger ships looked also newer than Johan’s. They probably belonged to prominent traders, chiefs, or jarls. Maybe _these_ were the kinds of ships for travelling across the Wicked Waters.

As he thought about it, Hiccup became convinced. These ships had surely gone to the mainland and back. It was true, the mainland was real, and it could not be very far. Perhaps Johan’s tales weren’t _all_ made up after all.

The sudden realization made Hiccup’s jaw slack with wonder. He had to close his mouth quickly though, as the wind of their flight filled his throat with air, and made his cheeks puff out. He began to look for a good landing spot.

After nine months of exile, both rider and dragon had learnt the procedure well. They found a small clearing in the woods, a scrubby forest barely thickened by low ferns and shrubs. As Toothless sniffed around for traces of human movement, Hiccup made his way to the village, strung bow across his back, right atop his old, sleeveless fur jerkin. Underneath it, he was wearing all three of his shirts, with his least tattered one on top.

He left his pelt behind, though. As cold as it was, he would have been far too conspicuous with the heavy sleeping-pelt crudely bound around his shoulders with nothing but rope. It might have caused suspicion about him being an outcast, and Hiccup wanted nothing less. After all, apart from his newer boots perhaps, Hiccup knew he already looked wild enough as it was, yet he wasn’t feeling as self-conscious about it as he had expected. Or maybe he was, but living in isolation for so long had made the embarrassment feel small, distant.

Led by fading twilight, Hiccup walked about half a league uphill, before emerging from the forest. He then walked half that distance again, still uphill, crossing small, irregular patches of farmland that, as Hiccup saw it, could not feed more than a hundred people. Perhaps there were more fields in more fertile parts of the island. It was not unlikely here. In a place where dragon raids were not a threat, villagers did not need to live all in one place.

Finally, Hiccup entered the village, passing through one of the gates in the wooden walls, which were typical of the southern settlements, as he had already observed in Balheim and Thargran.

He walked carefully towards the harbor, the streets narrowing, and tilting steeply downhill. In fact, in some places, the path had to zigzag its way downwards. It could not compare with the manmade path to Berk’s own piers, but it was still a rather steep walk.

Once halfway down the hill, before the descent became even sharper, Hiccup turned right, entering a wider street, which captured his attention. The street developed alongside the edge of a low cliff, like a long balcony, allowing it to have a broad view of the darkening sea on its left side, as night-mist crept unhurriedly over the docks, making the ship-masts seemingly sprout out of nowhere. The street’s inland side was instead trailed by wooden buildings, most of which would have all been taller than the average northern structure, if it wasn’t for the shallower, thatched rooftops. A few buildings were still twice as tall though, and larger too, much to Hiccup’s wonder.

What was even more surprising was the number of lanterns illuminating this very street. It wasn’t long before Hiccup understood the reason. Despite the late hour, this part of the village was extremely crowded, and all these people needed to see where they were going.

But why were there so many people around at this hour? It didn’t look like any village-festivity, and besides, the winter solstice celebrations were still a couple of weeks away. What were all these people doing, moving merrily in and out of buildings after sundown? Men of all ages, and a few women too, some clad in simple wool and leathers, others dressed in expensive cloths beneath heavy fur-lined cloaks.

A woman even wore something Hiccup recognized as silk, a very uncommon fabric in the north, even for a chief’s son. In fact, Hiccup had never owned anything made of silk himself. His mother had, however. It had been a gift from Stoick, ordered special to trader Johann. (After all, of the meager quantities of that fabric residing on Berk, Johann had always been the main supplier.)

Alas, the memory of Valka’s silk dress was faint now, since Hiccup had not seen it again after her death. He mostly remembered how his mother never wore it, for fear of damaging it. She mostly stared at it with wonder, and caressed the material, sometimes allowing Hiccup to feel it too, before telling him one of her stories, using that foreign cloth for inspiration.

When Valka had died, Hiccup had looked for that silk dress, but to no avail. He had later found out how his father had burned it, perhaps with the hope it would reach his wife in Valhalla, so she could finally wear it at Odin’s feast. Hiccup had cried again that day, blaming his father for what he had done, but he knew now, years later, he would have probably done the same.

When the odd, silk-clad woman disappeared within the crowd, along with what appeared to be a small entourage of armed guardsmen, Hiccup pushed away the thoughts of his mother, and, finally, he moved forward.

As the multitude of people sauntered up and down and across the large street, most of them seemingly unaware of each other (or simply unacquainted with each other), Hiccup began to catch sounds that were closely reminiscent of those which filled any typical great hall during a feast. Cheers, wooden mugs, clay plates, drunken shouts, crude attempts at song, mixed with the occasionally good voice.

It was not a great hall that produced those sounds, though, but a tavern. Not a simple ale-house, like the ones they had on Berk. This was an _actual_ tavern, like those trader Johann spoke of. Places where people could drink ales and meads of more kinds than a man had fingers and toes. Places where travellers could pay for private rooms, with higher luxuries than any Viking abode. And this wasn’t the only such place on that street. Walking along, Hiccup counted five more.

_How many people sail here?!_ Hiccup suddenly wondered. Berk had only two ale-houses, without counting the great hall’s kitchens, all places which were owned by the chief, and were leased to loyal families who worked them. And all three establishments had always been enough to serve the whole village, with all of its admittedly rare visitors. Yet, here, there were five, at least!

_What sort of village is visited by five taverns worth of travelers!? And in winter at that!_

As he considered those questions, Hiccup examined his surroundings with different eyes. Clearly, this was not a village like the others. It looked more like a hub for traders and travelers from all over the Archipelago, and perhaps even beyond. Many people here were probably not locals, but only temporary visitors, which not only explained the absurd number of taverns, but their sizes too.

This place stood only as further confirmation to the suspicion Hiccup was developing ever since he had visited the first few southern islands. These southern villages, while still inhabited by Vikings, were much more well-connected, and, to some degree, even more prosperous than the northern ones. For some reason, Hiccup had always believed southerners to be somehow inferior to the mighty northmen (it was, in fact, what everyone who belonged to the Northern Alliance was convinced of), but perhaps it was not so true.

Sure, Berkians and Bog Burglars and Meatheads, and all the other northerners were certainly fiercer, scarier, and much more formidable in comparison. After all, they did grow up fighting dragons every summer. Yet, it appeared that the regular dragon raids (not to mention the dangerous nest-hunts) had negated some of the growth and development of the northern islands.

_What will the mainland be like then?_ Hiccup wondered.

Suddenly, a burly, mustached man, who was standing by the entrance of the closest tavern, a doorkeeper perhaps, addressing a group of finely-decorated sailors entering his establishment, bellowed loudly: “Welcome to the Silver Dragon!” Then, with a small hesitation and a small bow, just before the patrons were inside, he added: “ _Bevenàsse a Drago Argissàri!_ ”

It took Hiccup a few head-scratching moments to realize the man had repeated the cheerful sentiment in a different language. Hiccup felt worry creep over him. Would he need to learn that new language? Surely there _had_ to be people who spoke his own tongue in the mainland. He hoped it was the case, but he finally decided he was going to tackle the problem after crossing the Wicked Waters, which was the most pressing matter at the moment.

With that in mind, Hiccup considered entering the Silver Dragon, but found he could not even approach the entrance. There was no physical obstacle, but the burly doorkeeper did not look like the kind of man to allow young, ragged-clothed boys inside. Appearances had never been a reason for discrimination on Berk, or in all the northern isles, but here, at least in some of these taverns, there were clearly different rules.

Hiccup decided to look further, walking along the street until he found a more approachable tavern. Despite the massive size of the establishment, no stern-looking doorkeeper blocked his path this time.

Warmth washed over his face when he entered, his ears struck by a loud fusion of sounds, shouted conversations, punctuated by laughs, cackles, belches, and hiccuping patrons, a good number of whom were already drunk. A stringed instrument, of a kind Hiccup had never seen before, was producing shrill plucking noises, which were not altogether enough to cover the muffled sounds of sex coming intermittently from upstairs.

Hiccup looked up, towards the high, thatched ceiling, and saw the inner balcony above, which appeared to connect the many guest rooms of the inn, their doors barely reached by the light of the long rectangular fire pit at the center of the ground floor. On the same ground floor, additional candles drove off most shadows from the tables at the furthest corners of the room.

Even without its second floor, this place was as big as any normal great hall, except of course for Berk’s unique great hall, which, while perhaps not as sophisticated in architecture, was certainly leaps and bounds more imposing. Berk’s hall may not have had long inner balconies, or guest chambers, but it was easily the highest columned hall in the whole Archipelago.

For reasons he could not quite explain, this realization revived Hiccup’s forgotten pride as a Berkian. It was only momentary, but it was this unanticipated surge of pride that helped him fend off his hesitation, as he stepped further into the tavern, trying to avoid the parts of floor where the wood was sticky with dried ale, or slippery with fresh ale.

As expected, his appearance was earning him some stares, but not as many as he had feared, nor as prolonged. The few heads that paid him any mind, quickly returned to their mugs, smoke-pipes, and bowls of…

_Is that mutton stew?_

Hiccup recognized the delightful scent, and his mouth began to water uncontrollably. How long had it been since he’d eaten stew? Or even mutton? For the past nine months, aside from roasting fish and occasional wild meats, he had only experimented with baking bread, and boiling vegetables. Yet, when it came to actual cooking, he had never trusted himself enough to try, and risk ruining precious food.

Following his nose, Hiccup moved to the counter which stood before the open passage to the kitchens, at the other end of the tavern. He still had some coin, so perhaps it wasn’t so bad to pay for a bowl of that stew. He checked his pouch: three silver coins, and two of copper.

With some disappointment, Hiccup decided it was more prudent to save his silver for the chance to eventually buy access to a map of the mainland. This left him with a margin of only two coppers to spend, which, as he observed from the patron before him, was the price this tavern charged for a single mug of ale. Whether it was a fair price or not, Hiccup did not know, since this was his first time paying in a tavern, and for ale at that. Mutton stew would surely cost more.

He had to buy something, though. He couldn’t just stand there. He needed to blend in, and ale was very appropriate, not to mention appealing. Hiccup had recently missed the taste of some grown-up drink, especially whilst mourning for his dragon friends. Gobber’s supply of mead had been long gone by that time, and ale was probably a fair substitute. Hiccup had never thought it possible for him to ever really crave this sort of drinks, yet here he was.

_But still, that stew…_

He considered trading some of his arrows, but he only had a dozen left from his forty-arrow quiver, and a single arrow could provide him with much more than a mere bowl of food when hunting. So, as he approached the counter, Hiccup pushed his two coppers across the dark, sticky wood, towards the tavern-maid, muttering: “Ale. Please.”

The fat, middle-aged woman leaned forward. She wasn’t much taller than him, but she still scanned him from head to toe, as if he was some tiny nuisance.

“ _Ale_?” The tavern-maid repeated doubtfully.

“I can pay,” Hiccup said, nodding at his coins on the counter, two fingers still holding down each copper. He had spoken a little louder, so he could be heard above the noise.

“Ya sure, boy?” She insisted. Her accent, Hiccup noticed, was a northern one. For an instant, he began wondering about her origins. The woman went on: “Ya look like ya could rather eat. My stew is only five coppers.”

Hiccup shot a longing look through the open kitchen door, towards a large pot atop a fire. He had to unglue his eyes from it with an effort.

“Just ale,” he said.

The tavern-maid gave him a narrow look. She eyed his bow, then his arrows, then his clothes. At first, she seemed confused, then disappointed, then irritated.

“I’m not hungry,” Hiccup claimed, lying, and hoping he hadn’t just offended her.

Finally, though she looked about to grunt and shake her head, the woman, saying nothing more, dipped a clean mug into the open barrel to her side (though the word _clean_ might have been a bit of an overstatement), and scraped its bottom against the rim of the barrel. She then slammed the full, dripping mug atop the two coppers, nearly flattening Hiccup’s fingers in the process. He withdrew his hand quickly, leaving the coins.

When the tavern-maid shooed him away with a wave of the hand, Hiccup picked up the wooden mug in both hands, and stepped back, trying an appeasing smile. He was not going to buy anything else, and she knew it.

Turning around, Hiccup chose to sit at one of the empty tables by one corner of the tavern, further away from the untalented music-player, who was now taking a break.

Hiccup eyed the crowd, and, after riffling through several voices, occasionally catching strange foreign words spoken in that southern language, his ears finally locked with the ongoing conversation at a nearby table. He drank, and listened to two boys, no more than a couple of years older than himself, talking about a woman in the tavern.

Hiccup looked for her, and found her sitting at one of the more crowded tables in the middle, eating and drinking with a company of men. None of them seemed intent on bothering her more than was necessary, which was not surprising, given her appearance.

She looked short but agile, with a cool intensity in her eyes, and a quiet mien of ferocity, despite her average build. Tattoos covered the shaved side of her head, while the other was adorned by many thin braids of blonde hair, their ends clinking with some beast’s claws or teeth, which did not belong to a dragon, Hiccup could tell. Two short swords were carried crossed behind her back. A very unusual position. Her clothes were also hard to ignore.

She wore an asymmetrical but meticulous patchwork of hard, brown leather, plates of armor for her breasts, and what Hiccup knew was high-quality chainmail. In fact, it looked to be the tightest weave of mail Hiccup had ever seen, and, as a blacksmith’s apprentice, he could appreciate the craftsmanship. After all, he knew how chainmail was made, and he knew how hard it was to make, not to mention how boring. Hiccup had always hated bending each link, riveting them one by one, making sure each had the correct angle. Gobber (being one-handed) had always had difficulties with precision work like that, so he would always leave that job to Hiccup, and, to Hiccup, those were the only times when working in the forge was truly tedious.

“Quit staring,” one of the boys told the other, casting a worried glance at his friend, whilst drinking from his mug of ale.

“Why?” The other asked, bold nonchalance filling voice.

Although the first boy had started whispering, Hiccup could still hear the reply: “‘Cause _look_ at her! She’s probably one of the Windblades!”

“What would a Windblade be doing here in Nendur?” The second boy asked doubtfully. “In fact, what would a Windblade be doing in the Archipelago?! I heard they all stay in Tarben.”

“They _travel,_ of course. I saw one in Tinas last time!”

“Yeah, right. You keep telling so to the whole crew, and yet no one believes you. I wonder why that is.”

“It’s no lie!” The first boy protested.

“Come on, Alvin. You’ve been to the mainland, what, _twice_? The captain’s been there dozens of times, and _he_ has seen a real Windblade only _once._ What are the odds?”

_They’ve been to the mainland?!_ Hiccup suddenly thought, sending his next sip of ale the wrong way, and trying not to cough too loudly.

After gulping down ale from his own mug, the second boy boldly added: “Besides, ever heard of a _woman_ Windblade? She just looks Viking to me.”

Though he did not really know what the two boys meant by the word ‘Windblade’, Hiccup agreed with the second boy. The woman looked very Viking, at least when it came to her features. Her apparel was unusual, however. The twin swords on her back in particular were something Hiccup had never seen before. But, then again, Hiccup had not been everywhere in the Archipelago yet.

These two older boys had travelled to the mainland though. Maybe he could ask them about it. He considered it, but the courage to stand up and join their table was nowhere to be found. Hiccup decided it was hiding at the bottom of his mug, so he drank some more, and listened on.

“I think she’s one of those Bog Burglar women or something,” the second boy continued, without caring to lower his voice. He was staring at the maiden almost hungrily.

“ _Fjalar!_ ” Alvin hissed. “What if she sees you?!”

“That could be a good start,” the boy named Fjalar drawled.

“A _start?!_ If she’s a Windblade, she might just cut your head off,” Alvin explained, looking away, pretending not to know the other boy, “but if she’s a Bog-woman, she’ll cut your head off too, ‘xcept she’ll rip out your balls _first_!” He added, clearly believing every word.

Hiccup almost laughed at that, but caught himself. He knew how fierce the Bog Burglars’ women-only tribe was, and, in part, they truly were known for being as ferocious with men as they were with dragons (in a good way, for some), but he also knew how reasonable they were too. Hiccup remembered that, of the many chiefs his father had to deal with, Big Boobied Bertha was probably the one Stoick the Vast had the most respect for.

“Don’t be stupid,” Fjalar said.

“ _You_ ’re the stupid one, looking at her like _that_ ,” Alvin shot back, still whispering. “You know Bog women only lay with other women besides.”

“Oh, _riiight.”_ Fjalar smiled. “Then _you_ can have a go at her.”

Hiccup heard the kick under the table. Then, the two boys were sniggering, and Hiccup found himself smiling too from his table.

_Just like old times,_ he thought, gazing inside his mug. _Me, sitting alone in the great hall, enjoying the other guys’ banters from two tables away._

Suddenly, Hiccup found he wasn’t very fond of that memory of his past. Trying not to put much thought into it, he decided that the only way to dispel the memory was to get up, grab his mug, and join the two boys. The musical plucks from that strange instrument resumed as he sat down at their table.

Past experiences made him expect the boys to go away as soon as his rear end had touched the bench, and, in part, they did seem disconcerted by his arrival, but they made no move to leave or shun him. They were likely giving his company a chance, and Hiccup was not going to waste it.

“Bog Burglars don’t lay with other women,” Hiccup said, matter-of-factly. “It’s said sometimes they do, but they often take men, though they rarely marry them. If they want to marry, they must leave the island. And if they want to keep their men close, but unmarried, they can, like one would a guest, or, some say, a slave. Few men chose to stay as slaves though.”

The two boys stared at him, utterly disconcerted. Deciding whether he was welcome or not, or whether they believed him or not, they studied him silently for a while.

Hiccup felt the tension rise. Had he said something wrong? He scanned their faces to see if he could read the answer. This allowed him to take a better look at the two boys.

Fjalar, the bolder one, was taller than the other, and, though less muscular, he was probably older as well. He had fiery red hair down to his jaw, and the first strands of a young, reddish beard roughened his chin. With blue eyes, he was handsome, and, considering his attitude, he was very much aware of it.

The other boy, Alvin, was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and plainer-looking. Without any hints of a beard whatsoever, he was a bit closer to Hiccup’s age. Perhaps that was why he was the first to break the silence:

“What happens if a Bog woman has a son, and she doesn’t want to leave the island? What happens to the son?” He asked.

Hiccup felt a wave of relief when he heard the interest in the other boy’s voice. He replied enthusiastically: “Sons usually go with their fathers back to the father’s village. It’s not unusual for a family to have a half Bog Burglar son. But, as you’d expect, not many wives are happy about it.”

“How would _you_ know this?” The boy named Fjalar finally asked. He did not seem truly interested; rather, he looked distrustful.

“I’ve… met a Bog Burglar.” Hiccup replied, reminding himself to be cautious of what he revealed about his origins.

“So, you’ve met a true Bog Burglar from the far north,” Fjalar continued. “Have you killed a dragon too now?”

“I haven’t,” Hiccup admitted openly, ignoring the not-so-veiled scorn in the other boy’s voice, “but I’ve _seen_ many.”

Fjalar snorted at that, but Alvin picked up the conversation with newfound excitement: “What kinds of dragons?” He asked. “I’ve seen five Terrible Terrors, two Gronckles, two Spiketails, and, once, when we were sailing east of Kattegat, I also saw a true Skrill during a storm! No lie!”

Fjalar scoffed again, and, picking up his mug to drink, he added: “’Course you have. Next thing you’ll tell us: you’ve danced with Freya at your cousin’s marriage.”

Alvin shot his friend a quick scowl, but his attention was with Hiccup, who was all but beaming back at him. Hiccup almost wanted to hug the other boy.

“Those are some nice dragons,” he said, smiling, “but I think, where I’m from, the Spiketails, we actually call them Deadly Nadders. We still call Terrible Terrors and Gronckles the same. As for the Skrill, I’ve never seen one myself, but I’ve seen another rare dragon, though I fear your friend here may not believe me, so I won’t tell you which one.” Hiccup grinned timidly, hoping he hadn’t overstepped himself. He wasn’t entirely sure anymore; the ale inside his empty stomach was beginning to act upon his senses.

Fjalar took it upon himself to change the subject: “Tell me, …”, he paused mid-question, waiting for a name, betraying his first honest bout of curiosity for the newcomer.

“Oh, my name is Erland, son of Baldur,” Hiccup said readily. He had prepared for this, and had chosen a name that, he believed, fit him better than Thormund. Sure, he had liked Thormund, but he knew it just wasn’t truly suited to him.

“Tell me, Erland _son of Baldur:_ what ship are you on?” There was a strange emphasis in the way Fjalar said _‘son of Baldur’_ , but Hiccup could not begin to imagine why.

“I don’t have a ship,” Hiccup replied.

“You are not from this place, that much is clear, so, unless you are the best swimmer in the Archipelago, you must be on _someone’s_ ship.”

“I’m really not a bad swimmer,” Hiccup said, shrugging jokingly at the other boys. Apparently, a slightly inebriated Hiccup was not above a little bragging, even with strangers. “But still, the ship that got me here has gone north,” he lied. “I’m actually looking to go south. You guys know how to get to the mainland by any chance?”

At last. He had asked the question he had come all this way for.

Instead of giving him a helpful response, however, his two sources of information looked at him perplexedly for a long, uncomfortable while. Finally, Fjalar grinned with renewed confidence, thinking Hiccup’s had been a mere jest, an exhibition of boldness, which could not go un-mocked.

“Well, you _could_ swim there, I suppose. It’s only about… what, three hundred leagues from here, with storms all winter and no harbor to be seen? If you start tonight, you can be there just in time for Ragnarok.” He laughed heartily at his own wit. Alvin joined him with a chuckle, but, unlike Fjalar, his dark eyes seemed to believe Hiccup had been serious.

“Here you two are!” The sudden voice made Hiccup almost jump. Turning around, he saw a strong, auburn-haired man with bushy sideburns for a beard, and a horizontal scar across his nose. “Hope you had your fun,” he said, “the others have gone to sleep. We’re sailing before first light.”

“What?” Alvin complained unhappily. “But we just got here, captain.”

“Aye, and we’re leaving. Word is there’s storms brewing worse than usual, and last thing I want is to be stuck here for a week.”

“I don’t mind; I like this place,” Alvin insisted. “Don’t you like this place, Fjalar?”

“Wouldn’t mind staying a few more nights myself, captain.” Fjalar agreed.

“You only say that ‘cause you’re not the one paying for a spot in the docks,” the captain retorted. “Every night moored in Nendur is a harder day of work anywhere else. So, we’re high-tailing from this place as soon as twilight lets us see our way out this dump of a harbor.”

“But I haven’t had my fun yet,” Alvin went on, whining. “Fjalar was just about to have his balls ripped off by that woman there. Can’t miss _that,_ captain.”

“What woman?” The captain seemed almost interested, he cocked his head at Fjalar, and followed Alvin’s discreet finger to the table by the fire pit.

Fjalar scoffed derisively. “Alvin says she’s a _Windblade_.”

“Aye… _that_ she might be,” the captain said in a low voice, surprising all three of the boys, though Hiccup had still no idea what a ‘Windblade’ was. “Better steer away from that lot. The way I see it, she’ll eat you like a dragon that one, and I’m still short on crew-members, so I can’t afford to have you killed. Go for some tavern-wench instead, or ask Alvin for a ‘favor’ like usual.” The last part, the man said mockingly, grinning, before sitting at their table and signaling for a serving girl.

“ _What?_ ” Alvin squealed. “I don’t do no _‘favors’_!” He turned to Hiccup hastily, his face flushed. “Don’t listen to our captain, Erland. He’s just joking. I don’t do those things with other men.”

Hiccup held back a grin, enjoying every moment of being, for once, just a spectator to the taunts of his table.

The captain finally turned to Hiccup: “And who might you be?”

“I’m H-Erland,” Hiccup replied, his real name almost escaping from his lips. The ale had officially reached his tongue.

The man did not seem to notice the slip-up. “What’s with the bow on this barren island, Erland? There’s better hunting ‘most anywhere else in Midgard.”

Hiccup touched the bow, which he had not removed from his back. “Just like to have it ready,” he explained.

“Wise,” the captain said, “but if you don’t plan to use it, like, say, in _this_ tavern, you better keep it unstrung and someplace dry. It’s bad for wood and string. If stave or string snap while you shoot, you could lose an eye.”

“Oh. I’ll... keep that in mind.” Hiccup murmured, feeling the string. It seemed fine to him, yet a chill ran through his back. Had he really been risking an eye? Was it so bad to keep the bow strung all the time? And dry? How could one keep _anything_ dry in the Archipelago?

“So, Erland,” the man cleared his throat, changing topic, “first time on Nendur?”

Hiccup nodded.

“Where are you headed?” He then asked. The man was clearly disregarding the possibility that one could stay on this island for long.

“He says his ship has left him here,” Fjalar interjected, betraying some unexpected concern, no longer thinking it a jest. “Says he wants to go to the mainland.”

The captain raised a serious eyebrow at that. “To Erfar? No ship goes south this time of year, son. ‘Specially now. Not to know of this…” He cleared some of the disapproval from his throat.

“But, I saw one of those huge ships,” Hiccup protested, “‘Aegir’s Blessing’ I think it was named, just docking here this evening. It was sailing from the south.”

The captain seemed taken aback. “You can read?” He asked, and the other boys joined in with the look of surprise. “Where are you from, boy?”

Hiccup replied as vaguely as he could: “Some northern… rock.” He said it firmly enough to show he was unwilling to disclose any more.

The man grinned warmly, but his eyes were clearly unsatisfied with the answer. He did not press on though, as one of the younger tavern-maids finally arrived at their table.

“Four cups of that smoky stuff I sold your inn-keep this morning,” the captain told her, and she left with a tired nod.

_Four? For me too? I don’t have coin for any other drinks!_ Hiccup thought, and told so to the other man.

“Don’t worry, lad,” the captain said jovially. “You can’t be paying when you are selling.”

“Selling?”

“Aye. Your services as sailor. How ‘bout joining my crew, eh? I’m in dire need of help on my ship. Deckhands, look-outs… Men who can both read and like to travel are in short supply.”

Hiccup was caught unawares by the unexpected offer. He did not know what to say. He did not know whether to consider such an offer. He couldn’t even tell what he was feeling. Honored? Flattered? One thing was sure in his mind: he deserved neither of those things.

“I…” he muttered, but no other words came out.

“We only travel where dragons don’t,” the captain continued, “and, when the weather is fair, we even cross the Wicked Waters to trade for special goods, so you’ll get to see the mainland about once a year.” He paused as the small clay cups arrived; a clear, yellowish liquid filling them for only two thirds of their capacity.

Picking up a cup, the man went on: “The pay is not too bad,” he said, though Alvin made a funny, uncertain face at that, before grabbing one of the little cups. “And, when we dock, you can spend your spare time and coin in all the taverns south of Balheim, like these two louts.” He flicked Alvin’s ear hard with a thick finger.

As Alvin complained about the pain, the captain raised his cup, and gestured for Hiccup to do the same.

Shouting “Skol!”, Fjalar and Alvin drank theirs in one gulp. Hiccup looked down at his cup, his emotions plainer on his face than he would have liked.

“This is one of the things I trade,” the captain said proudly, gulping it down as well, then making a satisfied noise. “Comes right from Breakneck Bog. Erfari lords love it. Some like it even better than wine.”

_Wine?_ Hiccup was unfamiliar with the term, but his mind drifted quickly back to the man’s offer.

“Come on, man! Drink!” Alvin urged. Then, leaning towards Fjalar, he whispered: “If he doesn’t drink it, I call dibs.”

Curious, Hiccup lifted the cup to his lips, and drank it all, as he’d seen the others do. Before he knew it, he was coughing, much to the boys’ amusement. His eyes teared up. Whatever it was, it was the strongest drink Hiccup had ever sent down his throat.

It tasted nothing like ale, or even mead, though it looked more like the latter. The aftertaste was smoke, and it creeped up his sinuses, as if he’d breathed upon a flaming hearth. A few moments later, it had the taste of dragon-raids, of wet wood, and earth, and pungent pine-sap, of smoked salmon, of salty seas during a storm. It reminded him of Berk. It reminded him of the forge. It reminded him too much of home. The memories stung his eyes more than the burn on his tongue.

“It’s not for me,” Hiccup said harshly, after coughing again and washing off the taste with his final mouthful of ale. “Sorry.”

The captain exhaled disappointedly. “Still wanna try the southern wines, don’t you?” He shook his head. “Look, I’ll tell you how to sail to Tinas, but just know that you won’t find a single ship that goes there sooner than spring. You’ll have to wait here a long time, find someone who’ll take you in till then.”

Hiccup looked up eagerly, coughed again, and listened.

Apparently, for a ship, the whole trip required taking a long but necessary detour. Reaching the mainland involved first going east, to an island named Kattegat, the last of the Viking islands, then south, making stops on ‘the Steps’, two uninhabited islands spaced out in the eastern side of the Wicked Waters. These ‘Steps’ could make the difference between life and a death, if a storm caught up with the ship, and a storm usually did. (They weren’t called the Wicked Waters for nothing after all.) For some reason though, during winter, though the sea didn’t always freeze as it did in the north, the storms were thrice as bad, and even the Steps were of no help.

Finally, Hiccup was told that, after reaching the shores of the mainland, most ships sailed back west, towards Tinas, the mainland’s major northern city, where most of the trading took place.

Despite the ale-induced dizziness, Hiccup absorbed the whole explanation, though the only part that truly interested him was when the captain said: “Tinas is actually straight south from here, give or take a few leagues, but no captain sails that way, not in any season, unless he wants his ship and crew to rest at the sea’s bottom.”

Hiccup nodded, failing to hide his excitement at the information. He did not care about the man’s warnings; he had a dragon, he was much faster than a ship, and he wanted to leave the Viking Archipelago as soon as possible. He was relieved to find that the directions were ultimately so very simple.

_Straight south, give or take a few leagues. Doesn’t get much easier than that._

“You’re not really planning to swim there, are you?” Alvin asked, not quite sure if it was a joke anymore.

“Nah,” Hiccup replied, grinning at Alvin, and even at Fjalar. He wished he could have been friends with them. He felt grateful to the two boys, who had accepted him at their table, a raggedy, runt-looking stranger. “Seems I can’t swim _that_ far after all. I guess I’ll have to fly there. Like a _dragon._ ” Hiccup made sure it sounded like a drunken joke. It was easy, he was smiling like an idiot at this point. He was aware of it, but did not hold back.

Both boys and captain sniggered at his boldness; a boldness which even Fjalar acknowledged with a warm grin of his own.

Thanking the captain for the drink, Hiccup slid away from the bench, and rose unsteadily to his feet.

“If you change your mind,” the man interjected, before Hiccup could turn his back to them, “my name is Audun, my ship is called the Grey Goose. We are setting sail at first light.”

Hiccup smiled gratefully, but did not reply. As soon as he turned to leave, his smile faded. Suddenly, part of him wanted to weep. Had he not been who he was, had his life been different, he would have loved to sail on the Grey Goose. It pained him to refuse a friendly invitation, when he knew very well what being starved of friendship meant.

_But I have Toothless now. A life at sea is not my destiny. My destiny will be much more exciting, for sure._

Leaving the tavern with a mug of ale and a cup of that smoky drink inside an empty belly was unsteady business. Hiccup stumbled a few times on his way outside, hearing laughter, which he somehow knew was directed at him, though he could not make himself care. That was part of the beauty of drinking, as he was learning.

Going back to the forest, Hiccup did not even think about the possibility of Spitelout laying him a trap. Fortunately, Hiccup did not have to. And, for that, he had to thank a long overdue stroke of luck.

* * *

 

They had been flying straight south since late morning. It was nearly sundown now, and, so far, apart from the increasing pains of sitting on a saddle for so long, it had all gone well. Until that moment.

Thunder began to rumble to the west, remaining at a safe distance from their path, though the harsh rain and winds did not.

Cold droplets began to spray violently with the wind, washing Hiccup and Toothless from every direction. Gusts so strong, it was hard work for the Night Fury not to be pushed backwards. Whenever that happened, they had to change direction. Sometimes, the winds would help them fly forwards even faster, but it was still a constant struggle for both travelers.

And that was just the beginning.

Before long, Odin, or maybe Thor, or most likely Aegir, jötunn of the oceans, saw it fit for the sea to mate with the sky. A thin, coiled rope of water rose, and was drawn to the clouds. Then, there were more, dancing together, getting larger, sucking seawater into the heavens. The couple of small tornadoes Hiccup had witnessed in the past, just off the coasts of Berk, were nothing like the ones sprouting around him now. Fortunately, they were easy enough to avoid, but frightening to behold nonetheless.

The massive clouds above churned fast around those twisted columns of water, up and down, like inverted waves, mimicking the swollen sea below. Wherever the clouds broke, the red-colored light of sunset stabbed through, and shone like lightning, only to be suffocated again by more clouds and rain.

The storm Hiccup had been warned about had finally made its appearance, and it was turning out to be as terrible as he’d been told, and more. What was worse, there were no islands, islets, or even rocks to wait it out. He had been promised a journey with no rest, and no rest was what he was finding. It looked to be an endless flight, surely the longest he and Toothless had ever attempted, and by far the most dangerous. It easily explained the alleged lack of dragons in the mainland.

_Can ships even make this distance? Maybe I should have listened to that captain._

It was too late now. The image of them ultimately plunging into the sea and drowning began to cross Hiccup’s mind, just like the thought of retching. The violent movements of the wind were shoving dragon and rider both in every direction, and Hiccup’s stomach, though strong, was reaching its limit.

Yet, he held on, curled almost into a ball, his foot always maneuvering the stirrup, constantly thinking if it was too soon to start shivering.

_I can’t afford to be cold yet. Not yet._

To think he had worn _all_ his remaining clothes, with the large pelt tied tightly around him as the outermost layer, in a way that provided with him a makeshift hood as well. He had added the still-strung bow across his back, the pressure of which helped keep the pelt from flapping in the wind.

He had also been provident enough to store his most fragile belongings in a way that the rain couldn’t reach them easily. His journal was tucked close to his chest, under his shirts. His coin-pouch and knife were tied to the same rope that kept both of his breeches from falling. The remaining dried meat was stored at the bottom of the basket, where it was driest, alongside Gobber’s grooming kit, lest the delicate metal tools got ruined by rust.

His remaining stuff was also in the basket: his quiver, his hatchet, his waterskins, the spare tailfin, all stored on top of the dried meat and grooming kit. Which was why, when a strong tearing noise told Hiccup that the basket behind him was breaking, he knew exactly what objects were falling into the sea.

He yelled, reaching back to keep his remaining belongings from spilling as well, but, from the corner of his eye, he saw that the majority had already fallen off; most importantly, the Night Fury’s spare tailfin.

Toothless turned back and dove to save what he could, but the storm had already taken all but the dried meat and grooming kit, both held down on the remnants of the basket by Hiccup’s hand. The meat, alas, was going to be ruined now.

Hiccup took them, and stored both bundles under one of his tunics, near his journal, freeing what remained of the empty basket, and allowing it to be taken by the wind.

As if to add insult to injury, a wicker strand of the broken basket, somehow whiplashed by the wind, caught on the stave of Hiccup’s bow, the string of which finally snapped at the sudden tug.

Before he could tell what was happening, Hiccup saw his bow leave him as well. He tried to grab it, jerking back and nearly falling off the dragon in the process, but he did not reach the bow in time, and it too was eaten by the waves.

He did not yell this time. It was no use warning Toothless anymore. Diving into this kind of stormy sea to search was not an option, unless he wanted to drown or freeze to death. The latter was bound to happen anyway, Hiccup thought, if they did not reach land soon. In fact, the cold penetrating his limbs was quickly becoming his most pressing concern, making losing most of his belongings feel much less important, except perhaps for one more detail.

When he had looked back to see his bow leave him, Hiccup thought he had noticed something that, with his luck, was going to be a more pressing concern still. Due to the violent winds and constant adjustments of direction, a small tear had started to form on the leather of the dragon’s prosthetic tailfin.

Hiccup thought it had been an impression, since the downpour made it near impossible for him to see further than his hand could reach. He pretended he had not seen anything for a while, knowing there was nothing to be done in any case. He just tried to will the storm away, hoping they were close, imagining the mainland spreading wide, just behind that thick curtain of rain.

When he looked back again, he realized it had not been a mere impression. The tear in the tailfin was still there. No, it had grown, and, slowly, after each turn, after each harsh maneuver, it advanced.

Across the whole horizon, in place of that hopeful curtain, now Hiccup saw only a wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The southern language will be a highly bastardized mixture of Italian, Latin, Greek, and other european languages, with the occasional Norse word thrown in. I'm choosing this mixture to maintain the perceived "southerness" of the mainland's common tongue when compared to actual Norse, which is what Hiccup supposedly speaks.
> 
> Whenever the narration will take the POV of a southerner who doesn't speak any Norse, the speech they'll understand will be in English, and the Norse conversations will be written in actual Norse, or whatever I manage to translate, since I don't speak Norse. If you do speak Norse, feel free to correct my mistakes.
> 
> I'll use all the narrative means I can to avoid writing dialogue in different languages, but sometimes portraying the language gap might require it.


	24. The Last Southern Wind

**(Stoick)**

 

A sickly sun dawned on Berk, washing the island’s cliffs with pale, winter light. Thin was the warmth it provided; a mockery to all those who dared to venture out of their homes this early morning, trudging through knee-high snow to reach the great hall, where the council was holding its open discussion. Clearly, even the mighty sun was no match for Berkian winters. Were Berkian folk at least a match for Berkian summers? Not for long perhaps. Not like this.

“…as Horik said, there must be less than five hundred of us left on the island! Our village is gettin’ smaller every year!”

For quite a while now, Spitelout Jorgenson had been presenting his concerns regarding the village’s welfare. From the tone of his voice, he was finally wrapping up.

“And I’m sorry, Stoick, but I must agree with Mildew: yer decision to look for the nest a third time in one summer did not help one bit.”

Aside from a beam of pale daylight seeping in through the half-open gate at the far end of the cavernous hall, there were only five fires lifting the darkness; darkness which kept swallowing the distant ceiling. Only one of the fires was a hearth, the biggest one at the center of the oval table, while the others were small torches. There were only a dozen people after all, most of them members of the Berkian council, all sitting at the great table, plus a few extra listeners around them: some farmers, fishermen, yawning young men, a few concerned mothers, and two shield-maidens (both Gothi’s apprentices).

Some of the spectators were nodding, mumbling concerned agreement.

“Helped not. One. Bit.” Echoed Mildew Arvidson solemnly, the words rasping out his rotting cave of a mouth.

One man cleared his throat, and a couple more shifted awkwardly in their seats.

Unfortunately, it was all true. Stoick had commanded a third nest-hunt that summer, driven by rage, determined to find the so-called Gate to Helheim. Perhaps part of him had thought it a not so remote possibility that Hiccup would be there, though most of him was satisfied with the prospect of vengeance. After his son had left, Stoick had stayed on Berk like a proper chief, but he could not stand to remain idle.

Alas, not only had all three of the hunts failed, as was always the case, but the last one had also gone very badly, as his cousin Spitelout had discovered after his return.

Now, at the end of November, with Spitelout back home from his own failed hunt, and with winter finally upon them, information on Hiccup’s whereabouts remained awfully scarce, as, most pressingly, were Berk’s supplies. The last summer raids had been harsh, and Stoick’s reckless decisions had only made things worse. He was the one to blame for the current situation, and he knew it; most likely, everyone else on Berk knew it, or at least suspected it. The council surely knew it, and not all of them were reluctant to say it in today’s gathering.

_This would be a small price to pay, had Spitelout returned with Hiccup!_ Stoick would often think. Of course, that had not been the case.

The very day of his cousin’s emptyhanded return, Stoick had decided that, yes, the time had finally come for him to search for Hiccup himself, despite the winter’s menace, accompanied by a much larger crew. He had waited, he had delegated, he had been sensible, and he had been left with no other choice. His people would understand, or so he had thought.

 The mere suggestion of yet another hopeless expedition, even one in the warmer seas south, had been received with the strongest disapproval. No one was willing to risk a mid-winter sail for their chief’s son, not after three failed nest-hunts in the same summer. Not one had supported him. Not even his most loyal friends had agreed to follow him. Not his admirers. Even Gobber had remained silent.

_And now, here I am once again, chained by duty, pretending to be a good chief, failing at being a father, while my son is in Thor-knows what kind of danger. Alone. Helpless!_

_But what else can I do?! Even if they did approve, and even if I didn’t care about Berk, how can I leave? Can I just abandon the village and set sail by myself? I promised I would do it. But how can I sail frozen seas? Would I be able to find Hiccup? Would he even listen to me then? Would I still be chief when I returned?_

None of those questions seemed to hold promising answers.

_Or should I just wait, and pray the cold winds will force him back home? No Viking will ever accept him in their village with a dragon at his side, that much is sure, even in the south. And he cannot hide the beast for long like he did here; not now that Spitelout has spread the word. Will this be enough to convince him that he must come back? Does he truly think he can survive the whole winter alone in the wild, with no shelter, no hearth?_

Maybe his son had managed to hunt or even buy food with the silver Gobber had confessed to giving him, but the coin couldn’t last forever, and it was winter now; Stoick could not see how a wimpy boy like Hiccup could hunt, or even keep warm, when the snows started piling up as high as any man, like they did every year in the Archipelago.

And yet, Hiccup had not returned. Eight months had passed since he had left, and there had been no sign of him for the last six, nor had there been any progress with his search. In fact, it looked like many months were still destined to go by before his son could be pursued again, and, assuming he was still alive, even more would have to pass until he was eventually brought back.

_With or without his pet Night Fury! I don’t care!_

Stoick was not sure when he had changed his mind, but he was now willing to consider keeping that dragon alive, if it helped him persuade Hiccup to come back home, and, most importantly, to _stay_ home, so that the boy could one day become chief.

_What have I come to?_ He would often think. _But Odin knows, there’s just no other way._

As he saw it, becoming chief was the only way for Hiccup to ever see some lasting respect and safety. In such times of constant war against the dragons, this was the only solution Stoick could think of, to ensure that his son would lead a happy life, with hopefully plenty of children. A weak boy like Hiccup could hardly hope for better chances at success in the Viking Archipelago. Stoick’s honor mattered little before that prospect.

Sadly, his honor was not the only thing at stake here: there were also the lives of Berk’s people to protect. To say Stoick the Vast felt torn on the matter would have been a fantastic understatement.

“We are left so few,” Spitelout continued for his final comment, now with a more humorous tone, “that, next year, instead of dragon fightin’, we’ll have to start teaching our teens how to plough like rabbits, if we don’t want us Hooligans to go extinct!” He gave the other men and women a knowing smirk. “And I’m not sure our _Gobber_ would be the best choice for the job.”

A few men held back a muffled chuckle. Some hid their grins behind a fist, pretending to cough.

“Are ya sure ya got the right to call for more breedin’, eh Jorgenson?” Gobber shot back, feigning amusement to disguise an obvious anger.

Though not a formal member of the council, the one-legged blacksmith was nonetheless slouched unceremoniously into one of the empty seats at their table, using the armrest to support his mutilated leg. Warriors crippled in battle could always count on such small privileges on Berk, and the blacksmith was not known for being polite.

“Ya do still have a wife as I recall,” Gobber continued, “but only _one_ son. Can’t help but wonder sometimes: has yer cock gone limp?”

Spitelout visibly struggled not to scowl, but his mouth was already twisted with venom. “Interested in me cock now, are ya? Ya fuckin’ pillowbi-”

“That’s enough!” Stoick roared abruptly, his voice echoing back and forth inside the huge columned cavern, silencing all further comments.

_I should have intervened sooner_ , Stoick thought. He knew Spitelout was never very patient with cheeky repartees, especially when his virility was involved. Few things sparked the man’s anger more than being reminded that his wife had not given him any other children after Snotlout. Making his temper worse about the matter were the rumors, claiming it was probably not his wife’s fault.

No one really knew the full truth of course, not even Stoick, and, honestly, he did not care. He had plenty else to worry about. Besides, with his wife dead, making more children was no longer something he considered. He occasionally did think about finding a new wife, maybe some prominent daughter from another village, to reinforce some useful alliance. It was the proper thing to do after so many years, especially for a chief with only one heir, but he could never contemplate the idea for very long. He surely would have liked more children, but he could never even listen to anyone suggesting he replaced Valka, the bravest, most beautiful woman he had ever known; not without wanting to punch them. And punched them he often had. He had even punched Gobber for the same reason a few years past; so hard in fact, that the topic had never been brought up again by anyone.

Gobber had probably been right of course, as he often was. And he was probably right today as well, regarding Spitelout’s situation, but his jab had still been an unfair one. On the other hand, so had been Spitelout’s remark.

In any case, Stoick had shut them up just in time, avoiding any additional and unproductive exchange of insults.

_Thank Thor my voice can still command some respect,_ he thought, feeling grateful. He could not afford to have Gothi publicly scowl at him again for allowing another fistfight during a meeting. The old bag had always hated patching up those pointless injuries, and, even as a mute, she would always make sure everyone knew how she felt about it, with special vehemence towards both the injured and, unfair as it was, even the chief, whether he was a bystander or not.

Fortunately, the silence in the hall held. Stoick sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes tightly shut, hoping to avert the rise of what he knew was going to be an annoying headache. He cleared his throat, and spoke as reassuringly as he could manage:

“Thank you all for your counsel, friends. Regardless of how things are with our search for Hiccup, my duties have not changed. Like last year, and the year before, and the one before that, I assure you, no Hooligan will starve this winter. Berk is still my top priority. Given the situation, I’ll need some more time to figure out what to do. Until then…” He rose, dragging his heavy seat out of the way, wood grating noisily against the stone floor.

Promptly, the others rose as well, and, one after the other, they left the great hall, muttering to each other all the while.

Mildew, leaning on his staff, was the last to exit the hall. The hunched old man did not even attempt to restore the gate in its semi-shut position. He left it wide open, allowing the freezing air to leak inside faster, letting it wash over Stoick’s ankles, even though he was so far away at the other end of the cavern.

Had it been a show of disrespect? Or did the old man lack the strength to move the huge gate? Stoick tried not to think too hard on the possible answer. His headache was getting worse even without such trifling preoccupations.

Gobber the Belch was the only one who had not gotten up from his seat. He was still there, picking the nails of his good hand with his hook, his face as calm and unconcerned as ever.

Stoick paced back and forth, trying to think, trying to figure out a plan, trying to find a way to keep looking for Hiccup during the winter, whilst keeping everyone else happy, and, most importantly, fed. When he couldn’t quickly think of one, he glared towards the blacksmith.

“Must you do this _now_?” He barked.

“I like to keep me nails clean,” Gobber replied matter-of-factly.

Stoick glared harder, both hands on his hips. He wasn’t so much offended by the activity, but rather by the blacksmith’s utter nonchalance. He knew Gobber was not indifferent to the matters they had just discussed, but the man’s easy-going attitude bothered him no less because of it. Maybe he was just jealous. Part of him wished he could have been half as carefree as his friend.

_Friend?_ Stoick considered the strange notion for a while. _He deserved every drop of my wrath that day, he accepted it all willingly, and now stands by me once again, so can he be anything else? This mad cripple. He’s still my closest friend, isn’t he?_

Stoick started pacing along the huge, oval table again.

“Ya know I love ya Stoick,” Gobber began, “like a brother if nothin’ else. That’s why I’ll keep telling ya: stop bringing up Hiccup every time. Let the boy go for a while. Isn’t that a father’s job? He’s turned fourteen by now, almost a man grown. He’s even managed to outrun Spitelout and ‘is crew. Remember how he used to run when he was little?” The man chuckled fondly. “As if he had 'is breeches ‘round his ankles! Now he can beat Spitelout in a race? To me, this can only mean he’s doin’ fine enough by ‘imself.”

“ _Fine?!”_ Stoick shot back. “You think he’s doin’ _fine?!_ In the summer, might be he could survive. But it’s winter now, Gobber! A ‘man grown’?! Have you _met_ Hiccup? Maybe he can run a bit, with that Night Fury he can even fly! But he’s not tough enough to camp out the winter, pet dragon or not. There’s some weathered men I know who would die trying! And, yes, might be that’s _my_ fault; I didn’t train him, didn’t harden him as I should ‘ave when he was younger. Always let him do as he pleased. Always…-”

“I may not have any of my own,” Gobber cut in softly, “but I’ve trained quite a few kids in the past years, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, is that a child is like a blade: one must be shaped, before it can be hardened.” The blacksmith recited his lesson confidently.

He was done cleaning his nails, and finally met Stoick’s eyes. “Hiccup is not like most Vikings. Pound ‘im too hard, and ya might break ‘im. Even _you_ realized as much. That’s why ya _had_ to be lenient.” He sighed. “Let ‘im find his own shape, Stoick. Strange as it may be, that Night Fury _is_ protecting ‘im, so try not to fret. Give ‘im time, and I’m sure he’ll turn up again somewhere. He might even come back on ‘is own, once he’s ready for yer… ‘hard lessons’.” He filled the last two words with mockery, before adding: “I doubt he’ll stay gone forever.”

Stoick grunted. “How could you possibly know that? Did _he_ tell you that?”

“No, no... nothing like that.” The blacksmith grinned. “Call it… a strong hunch.”

“A _hunch_?!” Stoick yelled, his voice echoing once again between the stone columns. “You’ll have me forget about bringing my son back on a _hunch_?!”

Gobber shook his head, his lips stretched with a sad, disapproving smile.

_How dare he! Maybe I shouldn’t have intervened before. Maybe I should have let Spitelout give him a few good punches. Maybe I should punch him again myself!_

“Just don’t forget the village, Stoick. There’s little else ya can do ‘bout Hiccup, and ya know it. _Everyone_ on Berk knows it! If ya keep making everything about _one_ boy for much longer, they’ll believe ya’re abandoning the rest of them, no matter how reassuring ya sound with yer nice words.”

There was a pause. Stoick thought he had been quite convincing with his speech, before dismissing the council. Had Gobber seen through him? More importantly, had the others? Stoick feared he already knew the answers to those questions.

_At least they left without arguing this time. That’s a good thing, right?_

“Berk still needs ya,” the blacksmith went on. “As much as it pains me to admit it, Spitelout is right about our situation; that arrogant prick. Berk needs the great _‘Stoick the Vast’_ more than ever. Despite it all, most of ‘em haven’t forgotten what ya’ve achieved. _Most_ of ‘em still respect ya.”

Stoick scoffed at that. “Most of them? I’m not so sure. Doubt those in the council do.” He hadn’t meant to admit it so openly, but confessing his preoccupations to Gobber had always come too easy for some arcane reason.

“Can ya blame them? Ya did threaten them after Hiccup left. Or so I hear.”

“I didn’t _‘threaten them’_ ,” Stoick explained defensively, “just…” he made a small, vague gesture in the air, “their arms and legs.”

Gobber let out a short but hearty laugh, and only then Stoick realized what he’d just said. He hadn’t meant it as a joke, but even he had to exhale a tiny smile as he sat back at the large table, on the opposite side to the blacksmith, shaking his head, feeling guilty for daring to be amused.

“Just arms and legs, aye?” Gobber said playfully. “Well, in that case they’re just being unreasonable.”

“Oh, shut up.” Stoick mumbled, almost too softly to hear, fighting off his own smile. He then pinched the bridge of his nose again, his headache was getting worse.

“In any case,” Gobber continued, “I thought diplomacy was more yer thing.”

Stoick replied to that as if reciting some ancestral lesson: “When it works, it is. But if there’s one thing I’ve learnt… if there’s one thing… that Valka taught me,” he paused to subdue an abrupt sadness from his voice, “is that diplomacy doesn’t always work with this lot. Sometimes you _have_ to be hard, or they’ll take advantage of it. Sometimes you just have to remind them who the chief is. Sometimes, they must think they have no choice.”

Stoick knew Valka’s lesson to be accurate. It had worked for him so far, after all.

Truth was, if Stoick had managed to become such a renowned chief, he had to thank his late wife’s insight as much as his own strength. Valka was the one who had taught him _how_ to channel his natural brawn and stubbornness. She had always been the wilder of the two. Stoick had always had a good mind for managing a village, its supplies, its warriors, he had always been good with numbers, but it was Valka who knew how to command; it was Valka who was good with managing Vikings, and a Viking chief had to do all those things equally well.

Somehow, Valka knew all the secrets on how to deal with stubborn people, and she had passed them all onto him. After his first and only son, this was the most valuable gift she had ever given him, the most precious dowry a chief could ever hope for in a marriage.

Too bad Hiccup could never be handled with those methods. It was to be expected though. The boy had inherited Stoick’s stubbornness and brain, alongside Valka’s blood and wit: a wildly unmanageable combination. Had the boy been any stronger, and perhaps more violent, he would have certainly taken over Berk by now, deposing his father, and, by age twenty, he would have probably made himself jarl of the Northern Alliance, or even king of the Archipelago!

It was partly a scary thought, yet the fantasy made Stoick’s heart swell with a fleeting pride. Sadly, Hiccup was not only awfully weak, but he also possessed the mildest demeanor in the whole of the nine realms. Mild to the point of thinking friends of his enemies. To think he could have been destined for greatness…

_He did come first at dragon-training though, and he tamed an actual Night Fury._

The unwelcome thought sprouted in his mind like a nasty weed, its roots a filthy insult. Stoick shook his head to dismiss it. He looked back at the blacksmith.

Gobber was nodding to himself, agreeing with Valka’s recited lesson; a wistful smile on his mouth, as if he somehow shared in the Stoick’s dejection about his late wife.

“Still,” Gobber said, “ya really shouldn’t be opposing them so much, not while so many of ‘em still want to support ya. No use in pushing their patience further. I say ya got maybe till next summer to prove they still need ya, before they start _really_ fightin’ back.”

“I’m their chief, Gobber.” Stoick replied sternly. “I’ve vowed to take care of them, and I will, but I’m not going to bow to them. I’m not going to live in fear of my own people.”

Gobber let out something between a sigh and a chuckle. “ _You?_ Fearing _someone_? Odin forbid. Who would _believe_ such a thing! No, no. There’s only _one_ thing in Midgard the mighty Stoick the Vast does fear, isn’t there?”

Stoick shot the man another glare; it seemed he was going for the record today. “Is that so?” He asked, still scowling. “And I suppose you are going to tell me what it is.”

“Being a father,” was Gobber’s curt reply, tossed there like a treat to a clueless dog, given away effortlessly, like the most obvious thing in the world, like an inside joke, the punchline of which was known to all but the dog. All but Stoick.

Oh, how he wanted to punch him again! How sweet it would have been to knock a few more of his teeth out! His friend seemed to be asking for it lately, with his humbly smug face, his noncommittal little comments, sharp as his quality knives.

Oh, but it was also true. Gobber was not wrong. Gobber was never wrong about such things. To Stoick, being a father had been (and still very much was) the most frightening thing in the world. He’d been feeling that fear ever since the day of Hiccup’s birth, and the fear had only increased tenfold after Valka’s death.

Every day, being a father had been like seeing his own heart running around in someone else’s body, and, in his son’s case, a very fragile body at that. Every time Hiccup would run, every time Hiccup would stumble, Stoick felt like it was _he_ who was going to die, not someone else. He cringed. He hurt. Stoick had always been a fighter, a killer all his life, he still was, yet his breath would always catch at the sight of his son bleeding, even from the tiniest cut on the tip of his littlest finger.

That’s why he could never watch. That’s why he could not be there during Hiccup’s training. That’s why he had sent him to apprentice at Gobber’s, the only man he could trust with his son’s life, as he trusted him with his own. And even then, every time Hiccup boyishly flaunted a new wound, (something he had done admittedly much less after Valka’s death) hoping it would leave a scar, hoping perhaps he’d become a warrior like the others, Stoick would look away. He had always been quick to dismiss, and scowl, and wince.

Perhaps that had been a mistake, like many more he had made. Perhaps that was why Hiccup had never grown up a Viking like the others. Stoick had been a cowardly father. He still was a cowardly father, but he only had one child. He would always have one child.

_Maybe if I had more..._

But no. He knew it wouldn’t have changed anything. It would have probably made things even harder. To have his heart split so many ways. It was a terrifying thought, yet part of him would have loved to have more children regardless. A daughter perhaps.

_Yes, a daughter wouldn’t be so bad. A sister for Hiccup. And he would love her too, and then he’d have no choice but to stay close. And her name would be something lovely, like Helga, or Aslaug, or Astrid. And maybe she’d be more like me than Val…_

But Valka was dead, and that’s when Stoick realized he was daydreaming.

Gobber had noticed. “Thinking of fatherhood?” He said. “Might it be our chief has finally decided to gift the village with some more of his noble offspring?”

Stoick glared at the other man once more. This was getting ridiculous, but it seemed today was a day for glaring. His headache was keeping him from doing anything else. Anything violent.

“I’m not having that discussion again,” he grumbled. He did not shout; he only tried to make his words sound final.

Gobber ignored his tone with merry disregard: “Ya know, I’ve been thinking…-”

“ _Gobber._ ” Stoick warned, but the blacksmith went on smoothly:

“I’m not sayin’ ya should marry again, and ya don’t have to forget about Hiccup either. Just hear me out. How ‘bout ya foster a kid, eh? Seems about time. Thor knows the Arvidsons have spawned plenty, some say too many to feed. I’m just sayin’… I don’t think it’d be such a bad idea. Ya could groom the kid for chiefdom. The village would finally have an heir again, and ya would stop looking so desperate in yer search for Hiccup, at least in the people’s eyes. Berk is moving on; ya need to look like ya’re moving on with it. It’d make ya look stronger, and Berk needs a strong chief. I’m not sayin’ ya should stop searching for Hiccup _entirely_ , but… ya know…”

There was a pause. Stoick did not intervene. To his own surprise, he let the other man finish.

“There’s no sayin’ what will happen if… _when,_ Hiccup is back. It’ll be hard for Berk to accept him after what’s happened, ‘specially as their future chief. Ya have to be realistic, Stoick.”

“Hiccup _will_ be chief,” Stoick declared, inflexible. It was probably a testament to his legendary stubbornness that he could still believe there was a chance. An outstanding exercise in self-deceit, for the tiniest sliver of hope. Hence, for that hope’s sake, the topic of Hiccup becoming chief was no longer open to debate, not since the day the council had agreed to the conditions for reinstating Hiccup as heir, the very same day when Hiccup had left.

_It has been decided. Time changes nothing!_ Stoick growled in his mind. Nonetheless, he had to admit that not everything in Gobber’s words was senseless.

“Stoick, I know this might come as a bit of a shock: but, what if he doesn’t _want_ to be chief? Ever thought of that?”

One more glare it was, harsher this time.

“ _Fine_. _Fine_.” Gobber partly relented, never losing his lightheartedness. “Then do it just for appearances, aye? A chief with no _apparent_ heir, even a loved one like yerself, will not have supporters for very long. Ya’ll end up with just me by yer side, and I’m half a man already.” He waved his hook and raised his leg-stump for emphasis.

Stoick looked away. He did not disagree. Not _really_. In fact, that was the one part he was finding most sensible from the entirety of this morning’s conversations, yet he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Could he really foster a child? It was an uncomfortable thing to consider, even if it was for mere appearances. Hiccup was his _only_ son, and Valka would always be his _only_ wife. They were the only two people he had ever truly loved, and the only two people he could ever admit to loving.

Stoick remained silent, staring blankly at the carvings in the stone columns, the fire’s shadows dancing on their cold surface.

“No offense, Stoick, but even _I_ have taken a new apprentice. A cripple can’t be a smithy without one, ya know. Not unlike a chief without an heir.”

“Gustav, was it?” Stoick asked, glad for the chance to change topic of conversation. “The Larson boy, how is he doing in the forge?”

“Ehhh...” Gobber shrugged, “he’s… learnin’. Not nearly as bright as Hiccup at that age, but he’ll do. There’s still hope. He’s quite eager at least. I once caught him looking at some of Hiccup’s old drawings, though I doubt he’ll ever understand them. He’s no Hiccup, no. Can’t yet figure out how to work a grinding wheel properly. He still ends up dulling more blades than he sharpens... But we were talking about yer problems, not mine.”

Stoick almost pouted at that. He immediately began smoothing his braided beard with both hands to cover up the childish expression. He hadn’t managed to change the topic after all, yet he kept sitting there anyway, listening. Truth was, it was still too cold outside, his headache was not improving, and, this early in the morning, many Vikings were not even up yet. Staying in the great hall was the most effortless thing for him to do, despite Gobber’s uncomfortable words coming down on him like arrows.

“Listen, I know ya don’t like it when I press on too much,” Gobber said, “but I really think ya should do something about the heir’s position, if only to reassure the villagers. Have ya noticed how Spitelout keeps boasting about Snotlout helping his other uncle kill that Zippleback? I’m not the only one who saw that the boy was mostly standing there, shield up, but Spitelout keeps bragging around, and that can only mean one thing.”

“Spitelout wasn’t here,” Stoick re-joined dismissively. “When he came back from the south and heard the story, he believed it and became proud. So what? Besides, he can hardly take it back now. Can you blame him?”

“Are ya a fool? Or are ya just pretending?”

Stoick was prepared to glare at the other man one more time, but his face took that _‘what are you talking about?’_ look, without realizing it.

Gobber rolled his eyes. “Spitelout is no idiot. Why else would he keep spreading that rumor?”

“He’s just _proud_ , Gobber. I was doing the same thing when I thought Hic-”

“ _Proud_ my hairy bottom,” Gobber cut in. “He wants to promise the boy as soon as he can! Can’t ya see?”

“ _Snotlout?_ For _marriage?_ He’s still a child, Gobber.”

“He’ll be fifteen in three months,” the blacksmith pointed out. “And he only needs to promise him, doesn’t have to marry him yet.”

“So let the boy marry if he wants! Why is that _my_ problem?” Stoick asked irritably. Unlike before however, this time he was only pretending not to understand what his friend was suggesting.

“Come on, Stoick. He’s got ‘is own ships, ‘is own gold, good reputation, a strong son who’s _said_ to have drawn his first summer blood, and if his son is also promised to marry...” Gobber paused, implying the rest. “Most people still support ya, but if ya keep being like that… well… things might change quick. And we know who’ll have the means to replace ya. He already looks like he can offer more stability. And those in the council seem to like him more with every passin’ day.”

“Ugh! Enough with your _whining_ ,” Stoick groaned. “For the last time: he risked his life and crew at sea for half a year, instead of in battle beside his family, all for my son’s sake. I know we’ve had our differences me and my cousin, we were young boys, but I won’t have you question his loyalty to me anymore. If you’ve got a problem with him, then go ahead and pick a fight. Just _don’t_ do it when _I’m_ looking. Or Gothi. _Especially_ Gothi.”

Silence fell for a while between them. Still slouched in the heavy wooden chair, Gobber had lost some of his overly sunny disposition, and was now looking rather pensive. He was making no move to get up and get to work though. Neither of them was.

Before too long, with his cheery attitude partly recovered, Gobber shrugged to himself and sad: “Perhaps ya might not need to foster too young a child, ya know. With the family’s and Gothi’s approval, ya could just choose one of the older teens to take in and groom for chiefdom. Sven’s second-born seems like a promising lad, just shy of seventeen. The people will approve of him. There’s also young Bard; he might be a good choice, more level-headed than most, trained him myself two years ago. And, actually, why not, even Astrid.”

Stoick looked up, “Hofferson’s daughter?” he asked, hoping to finally change the subject for good. Sure, it was better to discuss possible kids to foster, rather than talking about Spitelout, but not by much. “I remember she came to talk to me when Brunson’s boy was fading. Kept saying it was her fault. How’s the lass doing?”

“She’s doin’ well, I s’pose,” Gobber said vaguely. “At least, unlike Snotlout, she _did_ actually kill ‘er first dragon this summer. By ‘erself too. So, there’s that.”

“Really? First time _I’m_ hearing about it.”

“Yeah, well… It was in the last raid. There wasn’t much celebratin’ though.”

“How come I’m only hearing about this after so long?” Stoick complained. “Don’t usually hear much from the Hoffersons, they are not the kind to complain or boast too much about anything, but still…” He frowned. Perhaps it had just been a small Terror. “What dragon was it?”

“Deadly Nadder,” Gobber replied, his voice a pensive mutter.

“A _Nadder!_ ” Stoick exclaimed, as if it had been his own triumph. “Good! _Very_ good! All by herself too?”

“Hm? Oh… Yes. Asmund and Brenna said so. And Astrid’s little cousin, Bjorn, said he saw her while helping put out a fire. A clean kill, Asmund told me himself, axe in the throat, very quick. Doubt they’d have reason to lie ‘bout it. Others saw the dragon afterwards. No one else claimed the kill, I think.”

“But this should have been great news!” Stoick complained again. “Why was there no celebration? As her teacher, you should have made her a new shield, at least! The girl deserves it. Thor knows we need Vikings like her.”

Stoick was suddenly overjoyed. He thought he had just heard the first piece of pleasant news for his village in a very long while. It was small of course, a tiny speck of satisfaction in a sea of gloom, but he was going to savor it as much as possible. His heart had for too long been starved of joy.

“That’s the thing,” Gobber began, “I made a dagger for ‘er. But…”

“What?”

“Well… she refused it.”

“ _Refused it?_ ” Stoick asked, thoroughly perplexed. He was about to ask how bad that knife had been for the girl to decline the gift, but he knew for a fact that Gobber’s knives were always exceptional.

“Yes. She refuses to speak to anyone ‘bout her kill too. Not that she denies it, but… she’s acting as if nothin’ happened. If Asmund and Brenna hadn’t seen ‘er, might be no one would know. The way Asmund said it, there was no chasing, no torturing, no bathin’ in its blood after. One might say she took pity on the beast.” Gobber scratched his freshly-shaved chin with his hook, as he did whenever he was mulling over something serious. “Still, they did see her,” he added quickly, “she did kill it.”

Stoick said nothing for a while, waiting to hear the blacksmith’s full theory on the matter (assuming he had one), before he could devise his own. Truth was, he just wanted to be reassured that this was, in fact, very good news.

“Ya know how some kids feel after their first kill,” Gobber finally said, as if hearing Stoick’s secret wish. “It’s probably just that. Thought little Alvin’s death had broken her, but her Viking blood is strong, of that I’m sure as I can be. Might also be it’s her Hofferson blood that’s keepin’ her from boasting in the streets. She’s probably just bein’ humble about it. An underappreciated quality, if ya ask me.”

Stoick nodded, agreeing. “Good. That’s good,” he said absently, wondering why the young girl, whom he remembered to be fierce and rather proud-looking, would refuse to celebrate for her great accomplishment. A Nadder wasn’t just any Viking’s first kill.

_Pity a dragon? Nonsense!_

_Humble? Maybe, though still a little strange._

First kills did affect some kids worse than others of course, Stoick had seen it happen many times, but what if it was something else? What if Hiccup’s stupidity had somehow gotten into her mind?

_No,_ Stoick shook his head reassuringly, _if she managed to kill her first dragon on her first year, and by herself at that, then she’s a Viking through and through,_ he decided.

_Astrid Hofferson. No… Astrid Haddock._ Stoick tested the sound of it in his mind.

If he truly had to take someone in, to reassure his people, even if only to give Hiccup more time to be found, then Astrid was probably the best choice. Young, but not too young, and level-headed for her age. Fierce, but also honorable. Brave, but also humble. She was everything a Viking ought to be. Everyone on Berk respected her. And Hiccup liked her too, Stoick knew this for a fact.

_Perhaps…_ Stoick found his mind opening to another possibility. _Perhaps I can foster her, grooming her as my heir to keep Berk satisfied, only to have her marry Hiccup when I bring him back… Yes. He will be safer as chief then. The people will be less likely to challenge his authority with Astrid by his side. Berk trusts her. If she becomes his wife, the other people will find it easier to accept him, won’t they? She will surely like the idea of being chief herself, but she will have to accept Hiccup as her husband when he returns. I can make it part of the agreement. Hiccup will not mind, he likes her already, and Astrid will certainly not mind being the chief’s wife instead, will she?_

Stoick was sure she would agree. Becoming chief, or the chief’s wife. Both options were beyond any prospect for the Hofferson family. The offer would be too good to refuse.

The only real problem: she was Haldor Hofferson’s only child, and most likely would always be. His wife had become barren after a bad injury during a raid, soon after Astrid was born. Few people knew this. Would Haldor and Aslaug agree to let go of their only child?

_Of course they will,_ Stoick thought. _She won’t be leaving the village. She’ll still be free to spend as much time as she wants with her family. Everybody wins._

He hummed thoughtfully, with a hint of satisfaction, just like he did whenever he found himself drinking some of that rare, tasty mead from the southern islands.

_I must think on this some more before I make any rash decisions. One cannot be too careful with these things. There’s still time_.

Stoick took a deep breath, feeling a glimmer of hope for the first time in many months.

_Astrid Haddock… the Nadderslayer._

* * *

Everything was slower on the island of Berk, just as it was during every winter. People walked slower, worked slower, ate slower. There wasn’t much to do in a village half-buried in snow aside from chopping wood, fishing (for as long as the sea was not frozen at least), and keeping warm, and perhaps, on occasion, gathering in the great hall to drink some ale, always mindful of the village’s ever-dwindling reserves of food.

Stoick hated this season. He didn’t hate the cold, as some did, he was used to that. He didn’t hate the snow. He didn’t even mind eating a little less. He only hated not having any urgent work to do. He hated staying home, this year more than ever.

He had not always hated staying home. When Valka and he were newly married, Stoick used to love spending time in their house. He could still remember, as if it had been yesterday, how lovely, how warm, how exciting it was to stay beside his wife under the wools and pelts, naked, their loins burning with pleasure for as many times as the night would let them, and as late in the mornings as his duties allowed. Sleepless nights were not a bad thing back then, and most times they were not even enough to satiate their appetite for each other. That’s why, during winters, they would even spend whole afternoons underneath those covers, riding and loving each other, as if it was the day before Ragnarok, or merely talking softly to one another, waiting for a child to fill their lives with even more happiness.

Getting out of his house was as painful back then, as going inside it was now. After Valka’s death, the emptiness of Stoick’s spacious abode had been merely painful. Now, with Hiccup gone as well, it had become overwhelming.

It was the silence which made everything sound painfully hollow. At night, when Stoick was in his bed, whenever the house, settling, produced its random wooden creaks, he would always find himself jumping up, believing that it was his son making those noises, finally returning, trying to sneak back into his room unnoticed, as he often did to avoid a scolding. Although prepared for disappointment, Stoick would sometimes get up to check, secretly hoping, thinking: _This time. This time it was louder. I think it was the stairs. The boy is light, wouldn’t make much noise._ But Hiccup’s room was always empty.

This day, at sunset, like every other day at sunset, despite the cold biting harder, Stoick was still looking for something else to do, something to occupy himself, before finally relenting, and crawling back into his empty home.

He had just heard that a yak had escaped, and had found its way to the docks. A small matter perhaps, but a chief shouldn’t always delegate, and Stoick was known for always being first where help was needed.

He arrived by the cliffs. Before taking the steep path down to the docks, he quickly scanned the horizon. He squinted at the sky in the distance. There was no black speck today either.

It had become a habit of his, to see if Hiccup was coming back the same way he had left, to seek the black speck in the sky as it grew bigger, as the Night Fury flew closer.

Nothing. The sky was spotless, bathed in the smooth, pale oranges of this winter sunset.

Then, suddenly, instead of a black speck on the horizon, instead of Hiccup and the Night Fury, Stoick did notice something unusual.

There was a ship at sea. One medium-sized ship, like those used for trading between villages, not big enough to be Johan’s, or that of any other independent crew.

Stoick wasn’t the first who had noticed it as it approached from Thor Rock, sailing straight towards Berk. Why had nobody rushed to tell him? A ship this time of year? It was highly uncommon. After all, the sea was not yet frozen solid, but it was soon going to be.

“Meatheads?” He muttered to himself. It was the most reasonable answer. Chief Mogadon was likely sending an envoy to ask if they had some supplies to spare. Grain perhaps? No, a single ship was not enough to carry a significant amount. Dry meats then, or, most likely, a few milk yaks, always in exchange for metals, or leather, or wool… or a promise of either. The summer raids had clearly been bad for them too. Unfortunately, Berk had nothing to spare, and, worse still, sending their allies back emptyhanded was not going to improve their relations.

Stoick was already preparing excuses in his head. Despite his negligence, or, more accurately, his recklessness, Berk had managed to save just enough food and cattle to live through the season. It wasn’t really enough, some people were going to eat a bit less than usual, but Stoick had found a way to make the villagers accept it. He had seen to the fair distribution of their supplies, making fair promises and payments with his own coin, so that nobody would come close to starving.

Still, if he had managed to find a way with so little to work with, it was not just because he had a good mind for these things. The other reason was much more depressing: if everyone could count on enough food for this winter, it was also because there were fewer heads to feed than ever.

Spitelout had been right. In fact, everyone had been right at the last council meeting. They could not go on like this. Maybe they had just enough food for this year, but if their village became any smaller, the dragons would end up killing them faster than they could reproduce. For the Hairy Hooligan tribe, extinction was not a distant nightmare anymore.

_What am I to do?_ Stoick wondered desperately, not for the first time. _What else can a chief do? Will I ever be able to leave Berk to find Hiccup? How can I leave the village in this state, and hope to be chief when I return?!_

Just before nightfall, as the cold tinges of twilight washed over Berk’s snowy cliffs, the lone ship came finally close enough for its sail to be visible to all the Vikings who had gathered near the docks, bearing the cold for the sake of their curiosity.

“Ill tidings, most likely,” said the voice of Spitelout Jorgenson, who had also come to see their approaching guests, and whose eyesight was slightly better than Stoick’s.

Stoick squinted, and, finally, he too could make out the figure painted on the sail.

It was not a Meathead ship. The sailors were not Meathead envoys. Their crest was clear now, even in the twilight: a black, spiked dragon, coiled around itself. It was the Skrill.

Stoick’s heart skipped with unease.

_Berserkers._


	25. Renegade

**(Stoick)**

 

By the time the Berserker ship was finally moored in Berk’s docks, night had fallen on the island. Some of the villagers had gone down to welcome their unexpected guests, holding torches, asking for news, asking about the health of distant friends and acquaintances, about daughters they had married off.

The Berserkers had been led up the steep path to the village center, and then, according to their orders, into the great hall. Stoick had not gone to greet them down at the docks. As soon as he had realized it was not just the usual Meathead ship, but actually a small party of their allies from much further south, he had started organizing a small feast. A very small one, alas, for Berk could not afford extravagances this year. However, while not their closest neighbors in the Archipelago, the Berserkers were still very important allies, and Oswald, their chief, was a friend to Stoick. Berk had to keep up appearances.

If Berk had been in a better situation, Stoick would have rejoiced at meeting the Berserker chief. This evening, he was more worried than anything else. Fortunately, he realized that Oswald could not possibly be among their guests, otherwise more ships would have come. After all, ships were one of the assets Berserkers had in huge quantities. Their tribe possessed the largest fleet of the Northern Alliance. Today, only one ship had come though, and it did not look to have gone through any recent battles. Besides, dragons hardly ever attacked during the winter, and outcasts were not stupid enough to do so either. Why had they come? It was all very strange.

Rising from his central seat, spreading his thick arms and wearing his best smile, Stoick thundered: “Welcome, friends. Welcome, to Berk,” as five Berserker men and one woman entered the great hall, glancing occasionally up, trying to hide the wonder from their faces as they walked along the two main rows of columns, which sustained the immense nave above. That enormous chamber had always been Berk’s greatest architectural jewel, the proof of their might, their pride, and any visitor’s source of amazement, no matter how smug, or how regular.

To Stoick’s surprise, there was nobody he knew in that small party. He thought he could perhaps recognize the faces of one, maybe two of the six sailors, but he could not recall their names. He was expecting to receive at least _one_ person from Oswald’s trusted, or even from his family. Instead, there seemed to be nobody of real import in this crew. This was highly unusual. Suspicious even.

At least, the two faces Stoick did recognize reassured him that these were indeed true Berserkers, and not mere outcasts on a stolen ship, or with stolen sails. Besides, other Berkians had seemed already acquainted to some of them, so he was safe in the assumption that they weren’t welcoming any liars or traitors in their village for the night.

Stoick greeted their leader, showing that he recognized him from somewhere. It was by no means a warm reunion of course. Stoick made it clear he did not know the man’s name, and that it was not due to lack of memory.

The Berserker did not seem troubled. In fact, he did look smart enough to understand the awkwardness of the situation. He had come prepared. This was clearly not the case of ship lost at sea, nor the case of an urgent call for help. These Berserkers were capable sailors, selected to deliver a message, and it could not be a good one. Oswald would have never sent nameless men to deliver pleasant news, or, in fact, any news, unless something horrible had happened. Yet, just by looking at their faces, Stoick could tell their visit was not the result of any emergency.

A disturbing thought occurred to him: _What if Oswald did not send them at all?_

The Berserker leader greeted back, showing an appropriate, though slightly oily reverence to “the famous Stoick the Vast! Always an honor meetin’ such a great man. An honor!”

He was a black-haired Viking, who wore his beard divided in three small braids, held by little iron rings. He was carrying a long great-axe across his back. It was a fine weapon, hard to go unnoticed; a dragon-killing weapon. The name he gave was Ragnvald.

“Ragnvald…?” Stoick repeated, waiting for more than just a name.

“Just Ragnvald.”

_Of course,_ Stoick thought, nearly grunting aloud. He was careful not to roll his eyes.

Ragnvald explained that he was an experienced sailor and dragon slayer who was close to his chief’s firstborn son, Dagur, and who was often sent on trading expeditions by him.

_Not on Berk, apparently,_ thought Stoick.

After they had dispensed with the introductions, they all sat, occupying the largest table, the oval one with the fireplace in the middle, plus two smaller ones at the sides. Ragnvald was sitting exactly opposite Stoick, at the other end of the table, the hearth’s low fire making the air dance with heat between them.

All hearths had been lit that night, with plenty of torches besides. Aside from Petra, Helga, and her three daughters tending the tables and filling up mugs, there was a total of thirty people, including their guests, all the members of Berk’s council, their closest families, and a few of Stoick’s trusted, among which was of course Gobber, who was however at one of the side-tables, sitting between young Snotlout, who had been brought along by his father, and Finna, one of Gothi’s apprentices, and, for that reason, also a shieldmaiden. She, like Gobber, was one of the few Berkians who could interpret the mute healer’s scribbles in the dirt. That was all the two had in common though, aside from being both brightly blond, and also unmarried, the last of which, according to what Valka had once said, was probably for very similar reasons.

Stoick had arranged this to be a small, private feast. He had even placed guards at the gates, as was expected, although he had never liked the idea of shutting the doors to the rest of his villagers.

They all ate, mostly fish, but also mutton and chicken, both stewed and roasted. And they drank, without much amusement, talking of small things, Stoick asking most of the questions, slowly shifting towards more and more pressing matters. How was the sea? The weather? Any outcast ships? What of dragons? Was their village well supplied? And, finally: “How is my friend Oswald? What words does he send?”

“Oswald is…” Ragnvald began, putting down his mug, hesitating perhaps, but anticipating the question, “not very well, I’m afraid. He has come down with a bad sickness. It is Dagur that sends us in his stead.”

Stoick felt sudden worry for his distant friend. Oswald was often called by some _‘the Agreeable’_ , and Stoick knew why. The Berserker chief was both an honorable man and a good man, smart and reasonable, his presence always welcome during the Thing, his words always balanced and useful. Stoick trusted him, as most other chiefs did. To hear he was gravely sick was not only sad, but also worrisome. The day he was going to die, whenever it came, was bound to be a destabilizing moment in the Archipelago, a moment Stoick did not look forward to, for Oswald’s firstborn son, Dagur, was known to possess a very different temperament from his father. He had been dubbed ‘ _Dagur the Deranged’,_ after all.

“This is sad news,” said Stoick, meaning it, “sad news indeed. We must send our regards in some way. A present. A barrel of our finest mead to hasten his recovery.” He leaned to the left, towards Hoark, to issue the order, but before he could speak, Ragnvald cut him off.

“That… won’t be necessary,” he said, smiling an uncomfortable smile, an irksome smile, “Dagur is not very fond of such… _formalities_.”

Stoick leaned back, sitting up straighter in his chair. “Dagur isn’t chief _yet_ ,” he said harshly, as if telling off a child.

A few awkward smiles started to appear on the faces of their guests. Some shifted in their seats. Nobody dared say anything.

“Dagur _will_ surely be chief one day,” Stoick continued, not sounding too apologetic, but with a much calmer, propitiating voice, “but Oswald, as we all know, is a strong man. We are all confident in his recovery. You must however accept at least one small present. If not a barrel of mead, then…” Stoick lifted his eyes to the right, searching for a face at Gobber’s table. “Finna,” he called.

“Yes, chief,” the young woman promptly answered.

“Ask Gothi to weave one of her special talismans for chief Oswald.”

It was a much easier gift to give than a mead-barrel, Stoick thought. Perhaps a worthless gift, even if made by Gothi herself. Such woven talismans were usually made by women in the hopes of hastening some loved one’s recovery, and Berk’s own völva was said to make the most powerful ones. Stoick had never been given any reason to believe that they worked, but it was still a proper gift, if a little common.

_Just like our guests_ , he thought.

“Right away, chief,” Finna replied loyally, gulped down the remaining ale from her mug, then rose to her feet and, tightening the furs around her shoulders, she jogged out of the great hall. She would return soon afterwards.

“Chief Oswald has always been a good friend to me and to Berk.” Stoick began solemnly. “May the gods lend him strength, so that he may soon fight again beside you, to leave this realm only as a summer warrior worthy of Odin’s halls.” He raised his mug. “A toast. To Oswald.”

Everyone’s mug was lifted appropriately, as many echoed “To Oswald!” and “Skol!”

Stoick thought he could detect a few hints of hesitation on his guests’ faces as they toasted to the man who was still their chief. These hints were neither strong enough to raise his worries, nor, alas, absent enough to appease them.

He cleared his throat. “Now, what brings our southern friends to our northern shores? Don’t tell me you’ve come all the way up here, at this time of year, as the seas are about to freeze solid, only to tell us that chief Oswald has come down with a little cold.” Stoick tried to sound jovial as he spoke, but he could not completely hide his unease.

An expectant silence fell as Ragnvald drank, put down his mug, and wiped his mouth and beard with the back of his hand. Then, seeming sour and solemn for the first time that evening, the Berserker man spoke:

“My ships were attacked.”

Stoick frowned, taken aback. As he had already noticed, their crew did not look like it had gone through any fighting recently; a dragon attack would always leave very specific marks on a ship. A Viking attack then? Why had they come so far north to tell _him_? Unless… Was he implying…?

Stoick narrowed his eyes questioningly, with a little hint of threat underneath. “Are you saying you’ve been attacked by ships with Berk’s sails? Careful now. We have a pact, and we’ve always-”

Ragnvald raised his hand dismissively, if a little rudely. “’Didn’t say we were attacked by ships, did I?” He said.

That’s when Ragnvald began to unfold the story of the newly-built hut on that deserted island, on which, as the man explained, Berserkers used to stop for fresh water every time they sailed south of Helgafell. And that’s when Ragnvald spoke of the dragons that were defending the hut, and of the fight that had ensued, and of the three of his crew who had died on that beach.

Stoick’s eyebrows furrowed more and more at the man’s story. An empty hut? Dragons defending it? Why had they come to him? His mind had not yet made the proper connection. He also ignored the other question, which had appeared at the back of his mind: what business did Berserkers have south of Helgafell? Stoick was still trying to figure out what possible reasons could these Berserkers have to suspect Berk of such an attack. He was not even outraged by the accusation, merely dumbfounded.

“I fail to see how such matters have anything to do with us,” he said. “Helgafell… That’s almost two hundred leagues from our shores. Last time Berkians had any business there was when _every_ northern and southern chief met at the Thing. There hasn’t been such a historic meeting in the Archipelago for generations. What reason would we have to attack-”

“I’m not accusing anyone _here_ of carrying out an attack against us.” Ragnvald cut in.

Stoick did not like being interrupted. He took a sharp breath, then let it out as an annoyed sigh. “Then I suggest you cut to the chase,” he said irately.

“Of course,” said Ragnvald, offering an appeasing smile. Talking a little faster, he went on to recount the events following their looting and destruction of the hut. He talked of how they searched for its owner, who had apparently disappeared from the island, how they recovered the bodies of their dead comrades, how they left the island in the same afternoon, their three ships sailing back north, until a starry night fell.

What the Berserker man said next, made Stoick’s heart skip with an unpleasant mixture of dread and exhilaration:

“That’s when the owner of the hut came. _That’s_ when my ships were attacked. _That’s_ who attacked us. A dragon rider.”

Suddenly, the great hall became as silent as the deepest cell of Berk’s underground caverns. As if on purpose, even the many fires had temporarily stopped popping and hissing. Everyone was still as ice, not daring to move, not daring to breathe, hanging to Ragnvald’s every word.

“A boy, riding on the back of, believe it or not, a Night Fury,” Ragnvald continued. “A boy, rather small maybe… but cunning, I’ll have to admit. Dangerous.”

“A twisted little _beast_ atop a bigger one!” Snarled the only woman of the Berserker crew. Aside from her fiery cheeks, she was pale as snow. Unlike her captain, she sounded angry, as if ready to spill some blood.

Ragnvald gave her a fleeting, compassionate smile. He went on: “The boy somehow commanded the dragon’s fire and, before anyone could realize what was happenin’, blue fire pierced the hulls of my other two ships, and set their sails aflame. Killed no men with the blasts, for that, as the boy told us later, was ‘is purpose. He was showing us ‘is strength, ya see. He then landed on our ship. Ragged clothes and furs, like some forsaken outcast. His face, I do not jest, was painted all with blood. Not his own, mind you. War paint. He had a strange, short bow in his hands, arrow nocked, aimed straight towards me heart, and not a hair askew.” There was a pause. Then, the man added: “He offered us all our lives, this boy, in exchange only for the basket we had taken from ‘is hut.”

Ragnvald’s eyes scanned the spellbound crowd, and finally settled on Stoick’s. Despite the implications to what he was saying (which everyone had surely begun to pick up on), the Berserker was looking at Stoick in a surprisingly sympathetic way.

“Can’t say it was an unreasonable offer,” he said casually, “so I took it. Makin’ choices is easy when ya’re left with none. My other two ships were sinking, ya see. Some of my men were drowning, freezing to death. Two more I lost that night, taken by the cold. Good men.”

A heavy silence fell again as soon as Ragnvald stopped speaking. No one was saying anything. Not a murmur. Not a breath. Stoick could feel his own people’s eyes purposefully avoiding him.

After taking his time to finish his drink, the Berserker captain finally opened his mouth again. He spoke slowly, solemnly.

“We have more than enough reasons to believe, and Dagur ‘imself agrees, that our attacker was none other than yer own son, whom, as we’ve all heard, has left yer village, and now flies with our oldest, foulest enemies.”

The one Berserker woman and one of their men spat on the floor simultaneously. Stoick barely noticed, his mind in a haze, his head as if stuffed with wool, overwhelmed by both a terrible realization and utter disbelief.

_No. Hiccup? No! It must be a mistake. Blood paint? Hiccup?! A bow? Attacking ships? No, it couldn’t possibly be him. Killing men? Killing anyone?_

But Ragnvald had been very specific: the boy had not killed any people himself. Not directly. That suggested it might have really been his son. Hiccup had left Berk to save the life of a mere _dragon_ ; he was not a killer. That part of his description surely fitted. Yet, Stoick did not know what to feel about it. On the one hand, it meant Hiccup had still been alive a few weeks back. Very good news. But on the other…

_Should I believe this? Should I celebrate? Or should I worry even more?_

Some of his disbelief, Stoick was glad to see, was shared by most of the other Berkians in the hall, who knew all about Hiccup’s unusually mild demeanor. They had all seen Hiccup grow up. And, yes, they had often considered him dangerous, but only because of his legendary clumsiness. Everyone on Berk knew he was not, at heart, a violent boy. Even after his treachery with the dragon, that view of him had not yet changed.

It was very hard to believe the Berserker’s story. Perhaps Ragnvald was exaggerating the facts. Still, Stoick’s mouth was terribly dry. He could not find a way to object. His throat was too tight to speak.

It was Gobber who finally came to his aid:

“So,” the blacksmith began thoughtfully, mainly addressing his fellow Berkians, “a fearsome, dangerous young man, with real blood-paint on ‘is face, holding a weapon like a proper warrior.” He seemed amused. “That’s our ‘little Hiccup’ alright,” he exclaimed sarcastically.

Timid laughter rippled through the hall. It helped loosen the stiff crowd a bit; it even helped Stoick, who felt like he could finally breathe again. Nobody’s chuckles lasted long, however.

It was young Snotlout, sitting beside Gobber, who had been laughing the hardest. Yet, once all the mirth had abated, Stoick noticed how the boy was staring at the blacksmith, his eyes searching for approval. _‘Am I supposed to believe this story or not?’_ His eyes were asking. Despite the laughter, even Snotlout, much like everyone else, was still unsure what to think about all this; about his cousin.

Stoick shared his nephew’s confusion. He felt disoriented, and the more he thought, the worse the feeling got. The cleansing effect of Gobber’s lighthearted voice had already begun to fade. He became dizzy. Even though he was sitting in a sturdy wooden chair, Stoick could almost feel the ground slowly tilt beneath him, as if he was standing on a ship’s deck. He wanted to reach out for his mug to drink, but his arm did not move. He felt cold, and… was he sweating? He could not think straight. Too many ugly notions were sprouting inside his head, like weeds.

_If this man isn’t lying, then what has Hiccup turned into?_

_‘Let ‘im find his own shape,’_ Gobber had told him.

Was this what his friend had meant? Stoick wondered nervously. Was this the shape Hiccup was taking? And what was his final shape going to be? Not a Viking? A _true_ Viking? An outcast? Or something else? Something worse.

Stoick felt his heart sink at the sudden idea that, the day he was going to see his son again, there was a chance he would be unable to recognize him. For reasons he could not explain, Stoick was terrified of that prospect.

_I won’t believe this! This man is lying! He must be! The hut, the attack, the bow, everything! Hiccup could barely lift a hunting bow!_

That’s when Stoick recalled what Spitelout had told him the day he had returned to Berk. The only time Spitelout had caught up with Hiccup, on the island of Balheim, the boy was indeed carrying a bow. That’s where he had found it.

_Come on! What can Hiccup even do with a bow? Can he even aim it right?_

Another thought barged then into his mind: _He shot down a Night Fury._

_Fine! Maybe he could aim with his weird contraptions, but he can’t pull a bow’s string anyway! The boy never could! I should have taught him how, but I never did. I should have trained him. It was my duty, I know, but I never did! And Gobber did not either! Which means he can’t know how to shoot properly! He could not have learnt by himself! It doesn’t fit the description. It doesn’t! Of course they are all lies! Yes. All lies._

Stoick’s eyes suddenly met those of the pale Berserker woman, the one who had looked furious ever since she had stepped into the great hall, the one who had spat on the floor at the mention of Hiccup’s name. Her eyes were somber, angry. The eyes of a person who had recently lost someone they loved. The eyes of someone full of accusation. They were blaming him, those eyes. _Him._ She was blaming Hiccup for her loss, and, by extension, she was blaming Stoick too.

That’s when Stoick understood it was all true. That woman’s eyes were too honest, too grief-stricken. Ragnvald had not lied. Of course he hadn’t. It was too specific, too elaborate a story to be a lie.

Stoick scanned the tables to see if his fellow Berkians had started accepting it as well. They were murmuring to each other. And, as he searched their faces, he noticed a strange expression form on some of them; most of them, in fact. It was a rather specific expression, and yet, not totally unexpected. They were Vikings, after all.

Underneath an appropriate amount of outrage, surprise, and compassion for their southern allies, drowned under thick layers of heavy disapproval, there was a hint of… was it admiration? For _Hiccup?_ Stoick could barely see it, hidden behind the proper condemnation and contempt, but there it was, just the smallest trace of it.

Oh, a traitor was bad, sure. Very bad. But a _formidable_ traitor? A _fearsome_ traitor? A _capable_ traitor? Those were clearly redeeming qualities among Vikings, weren’t they? Strong, feared, infamous men deserved respect no matter their alignment, for they were favored by the gods; was that it?

_IDIOTS!_ Stoick wanted to shout at his people.

Was imagining Hiccup as a dangerous renegade, on some level, improving the boy’s reputation? Were Berkians enjoying the idea of sharing a home-village with someone who sounded so fearsome, so capable?

_Look at them! They are secretly proud! They care nothing about Hiccup’s safety!_ (And that, Stoick knew, was not entirely surprising.) _But they also care nothing about diplomacy, about what this might mean for our alliance!_

_Idiots!_ Stoick thought again. _Fucking idiots!_

Then again, had Stoick not been valuing strength and might too? Had he not respected fearsome and capable people in spite of their crimes? Had he not admired some of the men of legend, despite their rumored atrocities? Was imagining his son as a strong, assertive predator, capable of defeating three Berserker ships, making him, on some level, feel proud too?

Stoick searched within himself for the answer, and found that, fighting back against his chaotic emotions, there was indeed a tiny part of him which had swollen with pride.

_Then I’m a fucking idiot too!_

He forced the thought away. Reputation or not, pride or not, this was bad news for their alliance with the Berserkers, and, by extension, with all the other villages. A diplomatic incident of this sort was problematic, both for Berk’s future and, most of all, for Hiccup’s, if he was ever to become chief; a future about which Stoick was still very much unyielding.

Stoick was still hoping with all his heart (or, at least, most of his heart) that the boy in the story had been some other boy. Some other scrawny, Night-Fury-taming, dragon-riding boy. Maybe it was all just a mind-blowing coincidence.

“Did the boy give his name?” Stoick asked, realizing he had not said anything for an awkwardly long amount of time. The low murmurs in the hall stopped abruptly at the sound of his question.

Ragnvald smiled affably. “He… did not.”

“Then there is no conclusive proof that it was actually my son Hiccup, is there?” Stoick suggested. It was worth a shot.

Ragnvald’s grin grew wider. He was not mocking him; he was pleased. He had been expecting the question. “Dagur does not only send us with his regards,” he said. “He also thought it proper that we deliver this to ya. Thought ya might want to have it.” He nodded at one of his men, the youngest of the crew.

The lad got up. From behind his chair, he produced a wide, rectangular object, wrapped in a sheet of leather. He walked around the oval table and gracefully offered the object to Stoick. Most Berkians leaned to see their chief unwrap it. Some of those sitting at the side tables rose to their feet and stretched their necks to get a better look.

It was a plank of wood, rather thick and wide, not perfectly cut. It could have passed for a makeshift shield, had there been a way to hold it. Most likely, it looked like a piece of construction wood, for a ship’s deck perhaps. The only unusual feature was that it was charred black all over, and scratched, maybe clawed, to reveal lines of fresh wood underneath.

“What’s this?” Stoick asked, more perplexed than ever.

“We retrieved it from the hut,” Ragnvald replied. “Might be the boy forgot we had taken it, and didn’t ask for it, so it remained on my ship. Was planning to use it for repairs, ya see, when our young Bard here,” he nodded again towards the young lad, “noticed there was writing.”

Stoick stared at the jagged lines, lost. He could see no writing.

“The other side,” Bard suggested politely.

Stoick turned the plank over, and, with some difficulty, he recognized the runes for _‘Hiccup’_ and _‘Toothless’._

Stoick felt dizzy again. Chaos poured into his mind once more, but one thing was painfully clear. The Berserkers could not have known about the Night Fury’s name, had they not truly met Hiccup. This was real. This was all real.

_But…_ Stoick thoughts went on, _this cannot be Hiccup’s writing._

Hiccup’s runes had always been perfect, whether he was writing them on parchment or etching them in swords at the forge. Stoick knew this very well. This was not Hiccup’s work. Maybe they had heard about the Night Fury’s name from someone else, and they had fabricated this piece of evidence.

“So someone carved his name on this. This is no _proof,_ ” Stoick retorted.

A few people were still leaning to see the plank in his arms. Some had returned to their seats, murmuring again.

“The Night Fury, was its tail whole?” Stoick asked sternly.

Of course, deep down, he knew this was not a fabrication, but he still had to try; not just for Hiccup’s sake, but for his own too. While he was very glad to find that his son was likely still alive, this was nonetheless not the kind of news he had hoped to hear about him.

Ragnvald looked confused for the first time. “Its _tail?_ ”

“Yes. Was the beast’s tail whole?”

Ragnvald looked at his crew. With the slightest bit of hesitation, he said: “I suppose. Why?”

“Hiccup’s Night Fury is missing a tail-fin. It wears a prosthetic made of leather. You ought to have noticed.”

The Berserker captain looked at his men to see if any of them had something to say about this. When his men only shrugged, he cleared his throat. “I recall saying it was night-time, at sea,” he said. “Ya can’t blame us for not looking at the beast’s tail. I, for one, was more concerned with its teeth.”

That produced a few chuckles.

Stoick knew it had been an unreasonable demand. After all, he had failed to notice the missing tailfin too when the dragon had come to rescue Hiccup in the arena, which had also been in plain daylight. Nonetheless, Stoick was willing to employ any excuse. He did not care how foolish he looked. He was the chief. He could always justify himself by saying he just wanted to be thorough.

“So, you have no _absolute_ certainty that it was, in fact, Hiccup Haddock. His identity was not revealed.”

Another apparently amiable but deeply irritating smile appeared on Ragnvald’s face. He was pulling at his beard braids with amusement. He looked, once again, completely unflustered.

“I do have a final bit of proof, actually,” he reported. “With my whole crew as witness, when I asked the boy, before he flew away, if he truly was Stoick the Vast’s own son, do ya know what he replied?”

Silence filled the great hall one more time.

“He replied…” Ragnvald paused for effect, “ _’Not anymore’_.”

Although Stoick had been expecting that answer, he could not avoid wincing at the sudden, dreadful weight in his chest.

Ragnvald offered a slightly concerned look. “I _am_ sorry,” he said, “but he didn’t just reply ‘no’. That can only mean one thing to us.”

The silence was gone. Vikings were murmuring and nodding to each other. Some had begun drinking again, arguing. The matter was settled. Everyone finally agreed. Even Stoick, who, after tossing the charred plank with Hiccup’s name on the table, displacing mugs and plates and knives, slumped back into his chair, defeated.

Not a moment later, he saw Ragnvald sitting straighter in his own chair, as if ready to dodge something. The Berserker crew was shifting worriedly, and only then Stoick realized he was scowling, scowling like only he knew how. The kind of scowl that sapped the fight out of his enemies. He was famed for it. His hand had also inadvertently clenched around the leather loop by the side of his belt, where he carried his axe.

By the time Stoick collected himself, Ragnvald’s amused look had been wiped away for good.

In a very cautious, diplomatic tone, the Berserker said: “Dagur has told us to remind Berk that he is an understanding man. He won’t hold this attack on our ships against ya in any way. We bear no grudges with Berk.” He cleared his throat uneasily now. “But Dagur also said that it would be a problem for the good relationship of our villages, if Berk happened to reconcile with the traitor, given his many crimes. The boy is dangerous, more than any of our outcasts, and an enemy to all Vikings. That’s why Dagur sent us here. To make sure Berk is still… _friendly_ to our tribe.”

“Ya already had yer answer.”

To Stoick’s surprise, it was Spitelout who had spoken.

“The boy told ya ‘imself, didn’t he?” The man continued. “He’s Stoick’s son no longer. Disowned and exiled. Ya can’t blame a tribe for the actions of its outcasts. That has always been part of our pact, has it not?”

Spitelout did not mention anything about Hiccup’s exile being officially set for only two years. He was also lying about Hiccup being actually disowned. A provident decision on his part, Stoick thought. It was better if the Berserkers thought so. Nonetheless, Stoick was not sure whether to feel hurt, or grateful for Spitelout’s initiative, for it was bound to make things easier with the Berserkers. He chose to feel grateful, and nodded after Spitelout to show Ragnvald that he agreed with what had just been stated.

With an appreciative smile, Ragnvald looked at Stoick and bowed his head, spreading his hands, palms facing up, in what was his most courteous gesture yet.

After that, the uneasy feast was finally over. Most people were leaving the great hall in small groups. Stoick gave instructions for their guests’ accommodations, and made to leave himself, when Ragnvald approached him for one last thing.

“Chief Stoick,” he began, sounding meeker than ever. “Ya’ve been a very generous host to my ‘umble crew, and I don’t mean to sour the mood again. Please take no offense, but I must inform ya that there’s two more ships of mine waitin’ for us on Thor Rock no later than sundown tomorrow. Wasn’t sure how ya’d take our little news and, ya know… even lowly messengers have to take precautions.”

Stoick was not stupid enough to feel insulted. In fact, had he been in a better mood, he would have laughed. The thought of killing his guests in their sleep for bringing him uncomfortable news (along with what had surely been a veiled threat) had never crossed his mind. Besides, it was a smart precaution, and he secretly approved of it.

However, he was done being pleasant. He was done pretending that he liked this nameless man, that he wasn’t offended by receiving one of Dagur’s people, as if the young brat was chief already, as if the great Oswald matter nothing anymore. He was in a black temper, tired, sick, and miserable. Even if he was not planning any murder, now that almost everyone was gone, he had nothing to lose by being a little hostile. With the coldest, most unsettling voice he could muster, Stoick only replied:

“Sleep well, _just Ragnvald_.”

Then, Stoick turned his back to the man, and, finally, he went home.

* * *

The same night, Stoick had lit the fireplace in his own house, and was now sitting in his usual chair, mug of ale twice emptied, thrice refilled, contemplating the blackened plank of wood, the one that, to an educated eye, displayed the runes for ‘Hiccup’ and ‘Toothless’. Two names that now seemed bound together by some godly will. One of Loki’s tasteless jokes, most likely.

Gobber had also showed up, mug-attachment fastened on his stump. Stoick had not sent him away; he knew he was not going to sleep tonight, and he could use his friend’s company, no matter how irritating the blacksmith could be at times.

“So... who do ya reckon made this?” Gobber asked after a while, pointing towards the plank, which was occupying one of the seats, as if perched atop a pedestal. He too was sure it was not Hiccup’s handiwork. After all, if there was anyone who knew about Hiccup’s crafting skills better than Stoick, it was Gobber.

“I don’t know,” Stoick sighed. “Who else would do this for him? Makes no sense. He has clearly been avoiding all people, and the Berserkers never mentioned anyone else. It must be his work.”

Gobber scoffed. “Ya don’t believe that. The lad could already etch perfect lines on hardened steel when he was ten. He has always been an artist when it comes to such things.”

“Who else might have drawn this then? The _dragon?!”_ Stoick asked, rhetorically of course.

Gobber did not reply, nor did he chuckle. He took the plank in his one hand to study it, turned it around to reveal the meaningless scratches on the back, sniffed it, then set it back down. He looked as if he was he seriously considering the possibility.

“Oh, yak shit,” Stoick grunted. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m just sayin’.” Gobber shrugged, pointing with his mug-attachment at the plank, the current side of which bore merely random lines, and no discernible runes whatsoever. “It says _‘Hiccup’_ and _‘Toothless’_ on the other side, and there’s a drawing of a Night Fury with a boy on its back on this side. If the Berserkers didn’t do this, must have been someone who knew them both from up close. Slim pickin’s there.”

Stoick flinched. “What are you talking about?” He asked nervously. “What drawing?”

“Right here, can’t ya see? This is the dragon, wings and tail and all. And this…” Gobber pointed at a curly doodle above, “I s’pose this is Hiccup, ridin’ on its back. And the round thing up ‘ere must be the sun, or might be the moon, since everthin’ else is blackened.”

Stoick leaned forward. He squinted at the drawing, believing not a word at first, until, with a huge effort of imagination, the jagged lines started making sense, the irregular shapes resembling Gobber’s interpretation.

_No way_ , he thought, sure that his own imagination was just being influenced. Gobber was obviously insane, but, wasn’t he also known for being one of the very few Berkians capable of interpreting Gothi’s absurd scribbles in the dirt?

Stoick remained silent. Neither denying he was seeing it too, nor agreeing.

“Besides,” Gobber went on, “the burnt wood still smells of dragon fire. Can’t say our southern friends could not have used one of their captive dragons for that part, but the drawing, the writing… well… if they wanted to fake Hiccup’s work, they could have done a better job. Even little Gustav can carve better than this.”

“So, dragons can write now? Is _this_ what you are saying?!” Stoick shot back, bringing his hand down on the armrest of his heavy chair. “There’s grown _people_ on this island who’ve yet to read a second page of the dragon manual, not to mention a second book! But dragons _writing?_ Dragons _drawing?!_ Oh, that’s _ENTIRELY_ possible!” He yelled with exasperated sarcasm, spilling mead on the floor with his outraged waving.

Gobber lifted his arms in surrender. “Don’t blame _me,_ ” he said. “I’m just statin’ the facts. T’is not like I find it easy to believe meself. But ya must agree, that Night Fury ain’t behaving like most dragons. Seems like Hiccup really has a way with the beasts. Didn’t Ragnvald say five more of ‘em were defending the lad’s home? They gave their lives for an empty hut. That’s, well… unusual.”

Stoick sighed, but did not reply. Could Hiccup really command the beasts?

No. Not exactly. He had said so himself. He was taming them. Befriending them. That’s what Hiccup was doing. He had said the Night Fury was his best friend, hadn’t he? He had gone to befriend five more, apparently, though they were now dead, killed by Berserkers. Hiccup, his own little Hiccup, had even sought revenge after that. It had been, according to Ragnvald’s account, a rather mild kind of revenge, but that was all the more reason to believe that it was true.

Now, after attacking the Berserkers, after being discovered for a second time, after nearly every Viking chief had been informed of his existence, after having his house destroyed, after having some of his friends killed, what was Hiccup going to do? Was he going to fly on some other island? Was he going to befriend new dragons? Contemptible as it might have been, Stoick had to admit, it was still an extraordinary feat; sadly, one that could get his boy killed on almost every island of the archipelago.

Suddenly, the most pressing question in Stoick’s mind became: _What island will Hiccup end up on?_ It was a very different question from the ones Stoick had been asking himself for the last eight months (questions like: _when will Hiccup decide to come back?_ ) because it implied that Berk was not going to be that island. Such painful implication was the result of a new, strangely unpleasant truth. Hiccup was capable of taking care of himself.

His son was clearly not as helpless as Stoick had thought, and secretly hoped. It was not that Stoick wanted Hiccup to be in danger. Quite to the contrary, a massive weight had been lifted after hearing that his son was alive. Stoick had also started feeling an uneasy sort of pride in some small part of himself. But was that really a reason to rejoice, if it meant the harshness of the winter could no longer persuade Hiccup to come back?

Ever since the summer had ended, Stoick’s only source of comfort had been the hope that Hiccup would be forced to return. He had prayed to never actually need to set sail himself to find him; it was far too problematic, as all his people would regularly point out. Now, if Hiccup had built a hut, if he had managed to make himself a home, he could do all those things again somewhere else, even further away. And if Hiccup could survive out there, there was no need for him to return.

_What am I to do now? What is a father to do? Do I set sail when spring comes again? Do I stay here and wait? Do I do nothing? Do I let go?_

With the pressing fear for Hiccup’s life now strangely mollified, without that constant panic, the feeling of urgency, the perpetual restlessness, Stoick felt suddenly deflated, uncertain, confused. What little resolve he had mustered in the last few months was quickly being replaced by a tepid, inexorable void.

_‘Hiccup is fine. Hiccup doesn’t need you,’_ the charred board seemed to be saying.

Stoick closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

Gobber had fallen asleep in his chair, drooling over his shoulder.

Stoick looked at the drawing again. He tried to see the boy in it, his auburn hair, frail neck, lanky limbs, sitting on the dragon’s back, up into the sky.

_Where are you going, Hiccup?_ Stoick asked the boy in the picture.

But the boy did not reply. He was smiling, spreading his arms like wings, laughing. No matter how Stoick looked at it, that picture spoke only of a joyful freedom. It did not matter who had made it, or for what reason. Whether he liked it or not, that drawing was evidence that his son had spent at least one happy day away from Berk, and that realization was both soothing, and heartbreaking.

Stoick kept looking at the plank; he could not stop. He became absorbed by it, consumed by it.

He stared and gazed and glared at it. The jagged picture, a tiny window into Hiccup’s life, Stoick’s only future. He shook his head.

He stared and gazed and glared once more. That scorched piece of wood, his only reason to believe his son was still alive, the icon of Stoick’s hope. He finally rose, and walked away from it.

But he would regularly find his way back there, and he’d stare and gaze and glare, and stare again, and again, and again, for days, for weeks, for months, throughout the winter. And, every time, that purposeful look in his eyes, a prelude to tears. Tears would no longer fall on the chief’s face though; he could only lose himself in that picture, forlorn, suspended from a cliff of doubt, adrift in a sea of loss, his eyes every day more grim, every day more old.

_‘Are those white hairs near his temples?’_ The villagers would sometimes ask each other in hushed tones.

He hadn’t noticed. He didn’t care. He only waited for spring to come, and, at either that plank of wood, or the horizon, every day, sullenly, Stoick stared, and stared, and stared.

** END OF ACT II **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive my rather melodramatic ending. I couldn't help it! Act 2 is finally complete! :D [Cue in confetti rain] Keep in mind that Act 3 will not be the final act.  
> Until next time!


	26. Newcomers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To avoid some confusion: this short chapter is a partial interlude, with a new, one-time POV. The plot is still following the regular timeline.

**_Previously, on Fly to Live:_ **

_A Berserker ship has arrived to Berk with information on a certain dragon-rider and with a charred plank of wood bearing writings and drawings that point to the dragon-rider being none other than the chief’s son, Hiccup. Stoick doesn't know what to make of this information. At least his son is still alive, but can he truly survive the winter with that Night Fury by his side? Is his son really capable of taking care of himself? Will Hiccup ever return?_

_Meanwhile, nearly four hundred leagues away, to the south, having finally decided that the Archipelago will never be safe for him and Toothless, Hiccup has taken off on his dragon-friend's back, from the island of Nendur, straight towards the mainland, towards a city called Tinas, despite being informed that sailors always take a different course to reach the place, and never during winter._

_Promptly, flying directly across the Wicked Waters, after what was already turning out to be the longest non-stop flight of their lives, a terrible storm meets the two solitary travellers. The harsh winds and rain begin to eat away at the Night Fury's tattered prosthetic fin, the spare one having just been lost with Hiccup’s basket. The winter's cold has also begun to set in the boy’s skin. Will our protagonists ever reach the mainland?_

* * *

 

** ACT III: MAINLAND **

**(Oliman Fillatis)**

The wine was rather good this evening; pleasantly drying in the mouth, but also thick with flavor, balanced by a soft aroma of flowers and warm spices. Not the best quality perhaps, but few were knowledgeable enough to notice. Any back-alley tavern-keep would have still been able to tell, this was not a local wine, and _that_ was all that mattered.

This was a rare product, and, as such, a costly one. In fact, it didn’t yet have a price, at least here, in Tinas, the northernmost city of Erfar, a full month’s distance from where this wine was made. This particular batch had come from south of Anirun, in Atica. It had then travelled northwards, crossing the Dormant Sea to reach the Erfari capital, Nym, and, from there, it had passed into the hands of no other trader, before finding its way to Oliman’s associate in the capital, who had sent three small barrels for him to taste, and decide:

Was he going to resell this wine? Were there enough spoiled lords and lordlings in Tinas to justify the cost of procuring it? Were the keeps and holds of the northern coast rich enough to afford it?

Oliman snorted amusedly to himself, taking another sip.

It didn’t matter. He was going to sell it anyway, and make a hefty profit too. He had learnt the tricks long ago. That’s how he had made his fortune. Now, with his reputation, he could sell boiled dung for the price of honey, and all would claim it tasted just as well, if not better. Being the most distinguished merchant of the whole northern province had its perks.

Although not of noble blood, Oliman was respected by many, flattered by all, and some local lords would even dread the shame of not being able to afford the products he chose to import, be it wine, silks, and precious stones, or even ale, wools, and cheese. His name had become a synonym for prestige, especially since the day that, after claiming the earl’s taxes had been almost too fair with him (a carefully planned lie), with patriotic impetus, he had begun to personally fund the northern forces of the king’s resident army. That magnanimous deed had paid off only very recently, earning him the newly vacant seat of Master Treasurer in the city council, and the highly-anticipated suggestion that a lordship could very well be granted to him by the king for his service to the kingdom.

Still, even without a lordship, Oliman had become one of the most influential men in Tinas. His power in the city was second only to that of the earl, the Lord Commander, and perhaps the High Constable.

His villa in the high city was proof of this. The mighty structure could have passed off as a small castle, were it not for the actual city-castle looming over it from just across the street. It was, admittedly, an awkward arrangement, the reason of which lay in the history of Tinas, about a century back in time, when the city was capital to another kingdom, with its own king.

After being destroyed in the union war, which had merged the two kingdoms into that of Erfar, Highcliff castle had been rebuilt much smaller, to serve as northern stronghold for the appointed earl, leaving many of the damaged structures outside the new walls. From those ruins, much of the stone had been repurposed, and the surrounding grounds of the castle had since seen the construction of the most prestigious abodes of the city. Oliman’s villa was probably the most prestigious of them all.

Of course, the fact that such a valuable place was in the hands of a man with no special title caused plenty of talk amongst the nobility. Not as much as it would have in the capital, however. In this northern province of Erfar, even though centuries had passed since the rather forceful union, the king’s authority on matters of titles and bloodlines was still limited. Hence, the strict rules regarding land ownership and inheritance had not yet fully permeated this part of the Erfari society.

The most conservative amongst the nobles (usually those with strong ties to the south) thought of this as moral chaos, but, here in Tinas at least, it had brought an undeniable prosperity, so complaints were often no more than harmless frowns. No man had the means to change this yet; not even the king, far as his throne was.

Alas, this pleasant flexibility was not bound to last forever, and Oliman Fillatis, being a careful and shrewd man, worked hard every day to make sure his birth would never pose a problem for him and his family; his not-so-secret desire for an official title was not just the result of mere ambition. After all, most of his assets, particularly his lands, were never going to be _truly_ his own, with him being a common man, no matter how wealthy. This was not the free realm of Atica, unfortunately.

Oliman drank again, staring out, trying to look through the clearest tile of swirly glass of the window. He was in his library, at the top floor of his tower, another remnant of the former castle. From this height, his gaze reached easily beyond his villa’s spacious front-yard, then his villa’s gate, then a few noble households, then across the King’s road, and then through the Cliff Gate, past the city’s walls, to the west, towards the sea-cliffs and the Red Forest’s hills, beyond which lay the border with Kadal.

Very little stood in his line of sight from this angle. The even taller towers of Highcliff Castle were out of the way, to his right, and most of the lower city stretched behind him.

A young, timid voice disturbed his musings.

“More wine, my lord?”

It was Gillan, third son of the villa’s chamberlain.

Oliman turned silently, offering his empty glass goblet for the page-boy to refill. Though he was not truly a lord, Oliman never corrected those addressing him that way.

Behind him, another page was carefully lighting candles, illuminating the tall book-cabinets that lined the walls. Soft light began to shine on the plethora of open tomes and scrolls and ink-stained parchments spread atop the two oak tables. The sun had long set outside, the sky already a deep blue.

It had been a balmy day for mid-December, but nightfall still brought its winter cold. Fortunately, the wood had begun to pop in the fireplace near the window, warming the small library.

There was a knock on the door.

Oliman took a deep breath, closing his eyes. Nodding at the two page-boys, he said: “Leave me.”

They did, but did not bow; that, Oliman could not afford to be seen allowing. Not yet, at least.

A chambermaid entered first, letting Oliman’s wife in after her. Then, the old maid left, closing the door behind her. She probably did bow, though it was hard to tell, hunchbacked as she was.

Selaria stood alone by the closed door, caressing her long braid of formerly auburn hair, now dyed black. She scanned the room absently, as if looking for something that she already knew wasn’t there.

_Bad news, then,_ Oliman thought.

Before he could ask, his wife made as if she had just noticed him, and offered him a carefully measured smile. She then walked towards one of the eastern windows at the other side of the room, wiped some moisture from one glass tile, and stared outside.

Oliman could not read her behavior. He waited, patiently.

“I’ll be leaving Tinas for a while,” she said. “The city does me little good. It must be the water. I think the mountains will be better for me.”

“The curer…” Oliman began, ignoring his wife’s demand, “did he…?”

“Yes, yes, I _am_ with child again,” she replied quickly, without looking at him. Then, sighing, she added: “For how long, however, he could not tell me. He did suggest herbs, but…” Her voice became frustrated. “It seems that no matter how far they come from, no matter their school or skill, no matter their temple, no matter what gods they invoke, nobody can make a weak womb strong. We’ll have to wait and see. This time, I’d rather do my waiting in Tara.”

Oliman considered this. He finished the wine in his goblet, then nodded cautiously. He would have preferred for his wife to stay with him in Tinas, but if it helped him get a son, he was willing to concede to anything. Of course, giving in to his wife’s requests had always come easy. Selaria was a sensible woman, and, despite everything, he did love her still.

Once, she had been a wild, red-headed beauty too. She had liked to sing to him often, and dance on every occasion, her verve always endearing in any of her husband’s socially crucial gatherings, her womanly wit always dependable. She had helped Oliman become the man he was today, and her having slightly nobler blood than him was not the only reason.

To Oliman, she had become even more beautiful after birthing their first daughter, a time he remembered fondly. Then, two stillbirths, two lifeless little boys, and Selaria’s spirit darkened. After that, one more healthy daughter, but, since then, and for the last four years, only a dreadful sequence of miscarriages.

They had tried praying to all the gods, of course. They had made offerings to the Two of the eastern temples, the most favored ones in Erfar, the gods of life and death, light and darkness, Tarsim and Murasil. Then, they had invoked the many gods of the southern pantheons, and then just as many from those of northern lore, hoping that the closeness to the Viking islands would help their pleas be heard. Secretly, they had even prayed to the so-called ‘One true god’ of Kadal and Oshdal, frowned upon as it was. He had been just as deaf as the others.

Sixteen years had passed since they had married, and no sons. They rarely spoke about it. Of late, they hardly spoke at all, but Oliman would constantly feel the weight of this absence, and he suspected his wife felt it just as much.

That was probably why Selaria persisted, gritting her teeth every time. She kept trying. Her sanity, Oliman knew, was hanging by a thread, but she was willing to risk that pain again for him, and, for that, he admired her with a passion none of the poets would have ever been able to describe. Thus, he refused to pay any heed to suggestions that he find himself another wife, no matter how tempting they sometimes were.

Oliman scratched his dark beard thoughtfully. “Your sister is in Tara for the winter, isn’t she?”

“And my mother,” Selaria added.

“Good. Seeing them might be what you need best. You’ll be taking Verissa with you I imagine, but Siri…”

“I know,” she said. “I’ll leave Sirina here with you. She has her lessons. And besides, she doesn’t dislike the city as I’ve come to.”

“She doesn’t love it much here either,” Oliman pointed out. “If you’d rather have her by your side, I could arrange for-”

“No,” Selaria cut in, “she needs to be here. She’s almost a woman now. She needs to start making friends in the high city. She spends far too much time in the rooms and stables as it is, and Tara can only offer her more of the same. It’s more appropriate she stays here, if she’s ever to become a lady.”

He nodded. “Maybe I’ll try to bring her along with me when I can.”

Selaria shook her head with fond exasperation. “With you? I was thinking more about arranging a few dances or afternoons of music, embroidery, pastries... Are you going to make a merchant of her?”

Oliman put down his empty goblet on one of the tables. He shrugged faintly to himself. “Tarsim favor us, she may yet get a brother to take the reins one day, but…”

Selaria shot him an apprehensive look.

“It’s not unheard of to have women in the trade,” Oliman continued. “There are ladies in Atica who are no strangers to mongering. Besides, Viking women are known to wield needles just as well as axes. Of the Tarbeni Windblades, it’s said half of them are women, selling their skill for thrice the price of any other mercenary. Some of them are said to have even reached the highest ranks in their temples. And, if the rumors are true, in Cenya there’s even women pirates. A woman merchant here may not be _such_ a scandal.”

“Maybe,” his wife said tiredly. She then made a small gesture with one hand towards the western windows. “Then again, just beyond that forest, not twenty leagues from here, women bearing any coin above ten coppers can be legally stoned in the streets. If foreign lands are your measure for what is going to be acceptable here, then you must account for all of them.”

It was a strong point, Oliman had to admit it. Of course, he could have pointed out that the limit was actually fifteen coppers, but that would have been a very weak comeback. Nevertheless, Oliman wasn’t used to losing arguments. Rhetoric and persuasion were his primary arts, more so than counting silvers.

“Isn’t that why we are at war with Kadal?” He asked. It wasn’t technically true. The reason for the last decades of war with the Kadali were far less simple, but one could still make the argument.

Selaria sighed at him in response, and Oliman felt suddenly guilty. He knew the soundness of her worries. In fact, he shared them. Not to mention, his wife knew him too well. Any attempt to instill hope in her through rhetoric was bound to fail and offend, as it just had.

Selaria caught the guilt on his face. She smiled sweetly at him. “I still think Siri would be happier to take up piracy, than join your trade. Aside from her books and horses, I doubt you’ll find it easy to spark her interest in anything else. And need I remind you she’s not at all fond of the business. She has become convinced that all merchants do is lie.”

Oliman sniggered. “Good. You see? She knows a thing or two already,” he said heartily. “As long as she doesn’t sing such secret truths too loudly… But she’s not a daft girl. She’ll be just fine. Don’t worry. She’s not as wild as you think she is.”

Alas, Selaria did look worried. “I can’t remember the last time she agreed with you, or did what you told her. She’s been rebelling against you I think, though I cannot fathom why. I never did so with my own family.”

Oliman shot her a meaningful glance. “How about when you married me?”

“Nonsense. My uncle did approve of you at the end.”

“Oh, did he _really_?” He rejoined, knowing there was a reason for the sly smile on his face.

“Regardless,” she said dismissively, “keep an eye on Siri. She might not listen and obey as you’ve come to expect of everybody else, _Lord Fillatis_.”

Oliman smiled and shrugged as he poured wine into his empty goblet. He filled a second goblet from the tray on the table, then offered it to his wife. “That’s not necessarily a problem,” he said confidently. “If she won’t do what I tell her, I might be able to count on her doing the opposite. Worry not, my love. She’ll have grown into a well-mannered lady when next she comes to visit you in Tara.”

“Will _you_ be coming to visit?” Selaria asked hopefully, changing the subject. She did not drink the wine.

Oliman took a deep breath. “Perhaps,” he said, puffing it out. “It depends on how things develop here. I need to start working on _this_.” He raised his goblet. “It might just be good enough to compete with the Malshemi reds. As for our northern ships, I fear they are stuck in Nendur and Kattegat for the winter, probably until early spring, so our gem shipments will be delayed, and I guess Nym’s lords will have to do without their _‘magic’_ dragon-bone this year. That problem will need to be solved in some way. As for the east, the deal with Emiria is still incomplete. Bandits also keep appearing on the king’s road, and, as if all that wasn’t enough, Langham seems to think another battle is upon us very soon.”

Selaria scoffed at the last part. “There is _always_ some _major_ battle upon us, isn’t there? And yet, all I’ve been hearing about are skirmishes. Spies, and scouts, and a few lousy assassins. Six years have passed since last I could tell we were at war. May it be that this war is already over, and nobody wants to admit it was neither won nor lost?”

Oliman stared into his goblet. The scent of southern spices had strengthened with the warmth of the library. Perhaps this wine was even better than he had first thought.

He shook his head. “I must side with Langham on this. He may be a righteous cock, but he knows his trade better than most other commanders in the capital put together. That’s why the King entrusted the north to him. If he says there’s going to be a battle, then the war is not over, and I fear it won’t be for a time. Not as long as this so-called Inquisitor reigns Kadal, I suspect.”

A nervous expression narrowed his wife’s features.

Oliman offered her an encouraging smile. “You need not fret over such things. The roads east are quite safe, and Siri is going to be just as safe here with me as you and Verissa will be in Tara. This is the most guarded city of all the north.”

“If Kadal marches, of course,” Selaria retorted, “they’ll be coming straight for this very city.”

“Well, they will probably start with the towns and farms… but yes, you are right of course. That’s why Langham’s army is so large, without counting the swords the High Constable could levy. Langham is training good men, and, with my coin, he is arming them better than any Kadali warrior. I’m sure he knows what he is doing, even though I’m not yet privy to his full schemes.”

This reasoning seemed to soften Selaria’s frown. Oliman took the goblet from his wife’s hands, and left both his empty one and her full one atop the closest window-sill. He hugged her tenderly, cupping the back of her head, feeling her smooth hair, trying to feel her belly on his own, hoping to will health into her womb; hoping for a son. He kissed her temple.

He bid her goodnight some time later. He was going to spend most of the night in the library, studying his papers over and over again, as was his habit.

He knew that, as soon as his wife was going to leave the city, he was going to take up staring out of the eastern windows, towards Tara’s keep. Yet, this evening, he felt strangely attracted to the western side, towards the not-so-distant border with Kadal. That’s why, after taking his wife’s still full goblet, he returned to the western window, and looked outside, as he had been doing before his wife’s arrival. He drank, tasting more of the improving wine.

He was measuring the right words with which his tradesmen were going to sing the new product’s praises, when, suddenly, in the already black evening sky, something blacker seemed to dart from sea to shore, just above the cliffs. The shadow fell straight towards the hills, disappearing into the forest, no more than two leagues from the outer walls of Tinas.

_A bird?_ Oliman thought. He could not be sure. The moonlight was shy tonight.

_A diving hawk perhaps? Do hawks hunt at night?_ Oliman didn’t know much about birds, but, considering the distance, it had seemed too big to be any kind of bird.

Then again, he had drunk quite a bit of wine. He looked into his goblet. It was empty.

_Just an impression then,_ Oliman decided. _Nothing more. Just strong wine, tired eyes, and a trick of the night._

He put down his goblet, and stepped away from the window.

_Yes, a trick of the night._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN (Villa): For those who are interested, I uploaded a rough 3D rendering of the villa described in this chapter on my deviantart. Links are on my profile page. On the same page, you can also find a link to a rough map of the city of Tinas.


	27. Lost

**_Previously, on Fly to Live:_ **

_In Tinas, the northernmost city of Erfar, south of the Viking Archipelago, a very rich merchant is trying to secure his assets, to become even more powerful, and to gain even more political influence in the kingdom, despite his low birth._

_One mid-December evening, this man, from the top floor of his tower, at the center of his sumptuous villa, stares out of the window, into the night, just as a dark shape, bigger than any bird, falls to the west of the city, in the very forest that marks the border with Kadal, a land with which Erfar has been at an on-and-off war for decades._

_Had a Viking seen that shape from that distance, they would have immediately thought of a dragon. However, in the mainland, dragons have not been seen flying for centuries, so the rich merchant blames his vision on the wine, and goes back to his scrolls and parchments, thinking no more of it._

_Yet, a couple of leagues to the west of the city, something has truly landed: an exhausted Night Fury, and, on its back, a Viking boy, seeking a safe place for himself and his dragon. Has he finally found it?_

* * *

 

**(Hiccup)**

  

He was at home, but he had to go out, to the forge, to help Gobber; his father was going to scold him otherwise. Gobber wouldn’t have minded, but his father…

He was late, he knew, but he did not want to leave yet. He wanted to stay inside, hidden. He was still too ashamed. It was going to pass, he knew, but, for now, he wanted to wait, to let the people forget about him for a while. He wanted to avoid the glares. He deserved them of course; that didn’t mean he enjoyed them.

It had happened again. His latest invention had failed. It had not launched the net far enough. He had caught himself two Vikings, but that was all. The dragon they were fighting had escaped with the haul. The two Vikings were not happy, and his father had been even less so afterwards.

_It will work next time!_ Hiccup thought.

He was sure of it. He knew what adjustments to make. The day it truly did work, they were going to finally understand: he was _not_ useless. And then, maybe he would be allowed to join the fire team. Maybe his weapon was going to be so good, that his father would let him join dragon training early. Ten years old; not even the great Stoick the Vast had begun training so early.

Hiccup opened the door. He had to go. He headed straight to the forge, head bowed, hoping none of the other kids were in the mood to tease him for what he had done.

There were voices following him, faces looking at him, people all around him. He did not see them, he didn’t want to, but he could feel them nonetheless. He knew them, and they knew him. He started to run. The forge was his place, the only place where he still felt needed. He had to go back there fast, yes, close to the fire, surrounded by the smoke and molten metals and dark rocks, into that furnace, where _she_ waited, hungry. Always hungry.

Yes, he had to go there. How foolish of him to doubt her demands. She was going to eat him otherwise. She was not even going to move from her spot inside that furnace. She would command him to get into her stomach, and he was going to do it. He was going to calmly land on her enormous forked tongue, into her open mouth. She was going to allow him one last moment of awareness to cast a look outside, towards that red, glowing underworld. She was then going to force him to feel grateful, as her jaws chewed his body. And then, he was going to die, smiling a fake smile.

She reminded him of all this, she made him see it, she made him feel his own bones break, his ribs separate under the force of her fangs, and he hurried, trembling. He could not hope to leave. He belonged to her, body and mind. He was her slave, and, so, he obeyed. And he had to feel glad, and so he did. And he had to revere her, and, so, he did that too. And he also had to fear her, and that… _that_ was easy.

He finally arrived. He had made a small mistake. His weapon hadn’t worked, but he was going to do a better job next time. He was going to do better, because his father…? No… what _father?_ The queen. He felt the pressure of her palate on his back, crushing him, and he knew who he was once again: a small, insignificant pawn. Did the others have moments of doubt like this? Were the other dragons allowed such thoughts?

He entered the mountain.

She did not appear, shrouded by smoke and mist. Still, he did not simply bow, he prostrated himself, devoutly, his chest scraping the rocky ledge on which he had landed, pebbles falling into the smoldering abyss, like pieces of his pride. He was still allowed to feel his own humiliation. A gift, she would say, a generous concession. He did not complain, nor did he ask for something else. After all, he only wished one thing.

Wishing for death was forbidden, however. All she would grant was the pain of it, and the humiliation it entailed, but never its release; unless, of course, she was particularly hungry. She would never truly eat _him_ though, he knew. He was too valuable.

He slithered forward like a snake, and exposed his belly, whimpering, pleading her to forgive his mistake.

_What mistake?_ A net-launcher had not worked, but… this did not make any sense! Was _she_ making him think these things? Or were these his own thoughts? What did she want from him? Whatever it was, he was going to do it. Not only that, he was going to _want_ to do it.

The smoky vapor suddenly twirled. There was a noise of heavy boulders being displaced, of wind being forced through stony crevices. It was the sound of a moving mountain, if mountains could move. A sound so low, pulsating so thickly, he could feel it with his insides. It was the sound of bigness, the sound of a power too huge for any living being to face. Finally, she appeared before him, and he saw her, and it felt like the first time. Why did it feel that way? His terror washed away the question.

She was wondrously big, a mountain within a mountain. The red glow of the lava pools below shone in her six eyes. She took a deep breath, and he had to claw himself to the ground not to be sucked in by the wind. Then, her roar crushed over him like a wave of stone.

Hiccup woke up, shivering. Actually, he was shaking, caught in an inexplicable fit. His head spinning. The feeling was familiar, which was why he did not panic, though he could think of nothing coherent for some time. He braced himself, until, slowly, the dizziness abated.

What had he been dreaming? He could not recall, yet a feeling somehow lingered. A dread unlike anything he had ever felt. Silently, although he could not specify the reason, his eyes welled up. He let the tears fall freely, clueless of their cause. Why was he feeling such terror? He had dreamt of terrible things before, awful memories, he had even dreamt of dying, but this had somehow been worse.

_What could be worse than dying?_ He thought.

Hiccup made sure Toothless was still pressed against him in the darkness, and his emotions began to settle. They were both alive. They were fine. They had landed.

The dragon was still curled around him, black wing covering him, sleeping heavily. He was exhausted; they both were. They had flown without pause for more than half a day, and half of that had been in a storm the likes of which Hiccup had never seen. Hiccup had lost most of his belongings in that voyage. His bow, his basket, his tools. And, not long before that, he had lost six scaly friends, and yet another home.

He had lost so much lately, he thought. Maybe that was why he had felt like crying moments ago. However, remembering those things now only made him want to scream in anger.

He did not want to remember, so he forced all of it to the back of his mind. He had come here to forget. He had come here for a new beginning.

_We are on the mainland now,_ Hiccup told himself, and the thought soothed him.

It did not take him long to fall asleep again. After all, the sun had not yet risen on Hiccup’s first day away from the Viking Archipelago.

* * *

 

He needed needle and thread, and then, a map. He was not going to travel blindly _ever_ again. It did not matter that he could fly; he had learned his lesson. Besides, in this foreign place, he could hardly hope for a Norse-speaking person to offer him directions, as he had been offered in Nendur. How lucky he had been to meet that sailor, and how stupid of him not to heed his warning.

_I was careless, but no longer_ , Hiccup decided. He was going to find the cheapest map, for he only had three silver coins left. If they were not enough to buy it, he was going to pay to see it for a while. He was then going to pick the closest deserted mountain, he was going to fly there, and he was going to brace for winter, hoping to remain unnoticed. Come spring, he was going to see what the mainland could truly offer. For now, he needed smaller, achievable goals. His heart could bear no more failures, no more losses.

_Yes,_ Hiccup thought, _that’s the plan._

First, however, he needed to repair his friend’s prosthetic, and make a good job of it too, for they had lost the spare one. Fortunately, the tear on the leather had only split the fin halfway through; it was not going to be hard to mend. Later, he was going to find some leather to make a new fin, since the iron parts of the mechanism were still sound, but needle and thread were going to suffice for the time being.

“ _Toothless?_ ” Hiccup whispered softly. “Toothless, I’m leaving. I’ll be back before sundown, alright?”

The dragon stirred. Tiredly, he opened one eye. It seemed he could hardly breathe. He did not speak; their minds would not connect. Toothless was too weary, and it was up to him to join their minds, for Hiccup was still incapable of doing it himself.

Hiccup felt a pang of guilt. Their flight had sapped every bit of strength from the Night Fury. The dragon did not groan his usual objection. He did not even complain about the saddle being still strapped to his back. He snorted out a disapproving huff, but no smoke came out.

“I know, but I’ll be careful. I _must_ repair your tail.”

Toothless did groan then. It was not disagreement, only an aimless protest.

“Don’t worry, the village we saw last night is _huge_. It must be Tinas, the city I heard about. There must be lots of people there. And since some Vikings do come here, I won’t stick out too much. You stay here and rest, alright?”

Toothless huffed and closed his open eye.

“If I have enough coin left, I’ll bring something back for you to eat,” Hiccup added, but Toothless had already gone back to sleep. Hiccup was glad; he suspected he was not going to fulfil that promise, having only three silver coins.

Hiccup checked if the coins were still in the pouch by the piece of rope he called a belt, where his knife was also sheathed. He then made sure his journal was still dry against his chest, beneath his tunics and fur-jerkin, alongside the dried meat and Gobber’s grooming kit, which he had saved from the basket, when it broke during their flight. The meat was probably ruined anyway, but the kit had not been soaked enough to rust anytime soon. Hiccup left both with Toothless.

He decided to keep wearing his rope-bound pelt this time, unlike he had in his recent visit to Nendur, hoping no one here would suspect him of being an outcast. Besides, while this place was not as cold as it had been a day ago in the southern Archipelago, nor certainly as cold as it surely was this time of year on Berk, it was still cold enough for Hiccup’s breath to steam in the morning air, and his exhaustion was making him feel the chill twice over.

  Hiccup left their landing spot, moving eastwards, walking downhill through a red-leafed forest. Yellow rays of sun cut horizontally between the trees, warming his face. There was no snow to hinder his walk; his only obstacle was the terrible soreness of his thighs. Hiccup had never flown for as long as he had the previous day.

In fact, he planned to never do it again. Toothless had been barely able to carry him for such a distance. Clearly, even Night Furies had their limit, and Hiccup had almost pushed it too far. He was not going to push Toothless like that again. Going back north was no longer an option after all. There was a wall now, between this place and the Archipelago. That’s what the Wicked Waters were to him, a wall beyond which no dragon-killer had any business going. Hiccup was glad for it. It helped him narrow down his options, now that they had made it through.

_How far did we land from the village?_ Hiccup thought after some time, trying not to slip on the carpet of fallen leaves, morning dew making them slick.

_No. Not just a village. An actual city!_

He allowed the excitement to fuel his spirit as he walked. He could faintly hear the waves to his left, crashing against the same cliffs that had marked the finish line to their dangerous voyage. Yet, the forest was thick, and Hiccup could see the northern sea only intermittently. He still trailed the coastline from a distance, following its familiar sound.

Hiccup’s mouth hung open when he finally emerged from the neatly harvested tree line, tree-stumps cut low, allowing him to take in the scenery from his vantage point. An enormous valley opened before him, the sea to his left, great, snow-capped mountains far on the horizon, clawing at the distant sky. Above, round, lonely clouds spotted the grassy land with their shadows. Finally, a river, large enough for a dozen boats to sail side by side, had carved its way to the sea, slicing the valley like a heavy wedge, and around its delta, the city of Tinas grew, more densely than any settlement Hiccup had ever seen.

Massive walls of light-grey stone, taller than any Berkian house, drew an irregular circle around most of the buildings. Taller still were the handful of towers, sprouting skywards from the western side of the city, the higher side, towards which Hiccup had slowly, inadvertently begun to walk, a sense of wonder making him forget his worries. Where was he going to find a map? Whom was he going to ask for stitching materials? It seemed unimportant before such majesty.

From the highland, his eyes surveyed the intricate streets with renewed eagerness. He saw countless clay-tiled rooftops, chimneys puffing grey clouds into the chilly air, stone bridges, myriads of boats and ships floating in the huge, circular harbor, and some flowing upriver. And, of course, he could not avoid gawking at the sight of the castle, perched proudly atop the northernmost cliff of the city.

Most intriguing of all, however, was the sight of something like a bridge, suspended on tall, stone arches, higher than most other buildings, cutting through the city from the south, straight towards the castle. Hiccup could not see what was atop it, but he could guess.

“ _Odin’s beard..._ That’s a raised waterway!” He said out loud, hands to his hair, thinking for a moment that Toothless was there beside him to share in the amazing discovery.

Hiccup felt inspired by that marvelous feat of engineering, for it somewhat resembled one of his own old ideas for Berk’s water supply, only a hundred times bigger. In fact, it was the longest construction Hiccup had ever seen, stretching far beyond the walled perimeter of the city.

How many years had it taken to build such waterway? How many hands? How much knowledge?

_I should have been born here,_ Hiccup thought. The thought, however, turned into a bitter ache inside his chest. A wave of homesickness, unlike anything he had felt since leaving Berk, rolled suddenly over him. He had been able to keep the feeling at bay for many months, always aware that he was never more than a day or two of flight from his birthplace. Now, with the Wicked Waters barring his way to the Archipelago, or at least making it a near-deadly trip, his condition as an outcast had acquired a heavier sense of permanence.

Hiccup cleared his throat, trying to calm his skipping heart, and replace the sudden panic with the pleasant sense of wonder he had been feeling before. To his surprise, it worked. He smiled again, eager to explore the huge city.

The ground became more even as he descended the steep, grassy hill, leaving the forest behind him. It was almost noon when Hiccup reached the first barns and farms outside the city walls. He was no longer high enough to view the city from above, but he could still make out the tops of the castle’s towers, so he followed their direction, walking by a few small fields, which were too small to feed the entire city; clearly, this place could only survive with trade, Hiccup thought. That’s when he saw the horses.

He had never seen them before, but they looked exactly like Hiccup had imagined from the stories and sketches that had found their way to Berk. A wheeled cart was being hauled by one of the tall animals, a muscular, brown-coated stallion, one man pulling the stirrups, directing the beast towards the main dirt road. Hiccup stalked closer, entering the road himself, and joining the increasing traffic.

_So many people, and I haven’t even entered the city!_

Fortunately, none of them seemed to pay him any attention.

Hiccup reached the massive walls. A gateway, large enough for two carts, welcomed in all of the travelers. Hiccup wanted to stop and admire the architecture, but he was funneled through the gate by the traffic of people. He nonetheless kept looking up, admiring the artificial vault above. It was made entirely of large stone blocks.

_How do the blocks not fall?_ He wondered. _Do they support their own weight? They must have been carved to the shape of an arch beforehand. But how did they manage to put them up there in the first place?_

Head bent backwards, Hiccup examined the structure from underneath, much like visitors used to do in Berk’s great hall. His eyes caught what seemed like a trap-door at the very center of the vault’s ceiling. He wondered about its purpose, but he did not have enough time to figure it out, before he was pushed onwards by the flow of people and horses; the elegant animals, Hiccup noticed, smelled almost like Berk’s yaks.

Once inside the city, Hiccup was struck by the noise. Shouts and murmurs, crying babes and polite conversation, horses whinnying, workers and workshops, carts and wheelbarrows dragging heavily on what Hiccup noticed was no longer a dirt road, but a floor of stone. In fact, it seemed most of the main streets had been painstakingly paved with flagstone. It certainly conveyed a sense of luxury, but was it really necessary? Vikings would hardly pave the inside of their own homes, yet mainlanders, it seemed, would even pave their streets!

Hiccup walked forward, following the flow of people and the peculiar background noise that the city seemed to emanate. As he passed enough streets and crossings to fill any Viking village, both the traffic and the noise began to dilute, and Hiccup found he no longer knew which way to go.

He paused in the middle of a great crossroads, and finally took the time to observe the huge buildings that lined the streets, no longer having his view obscured by the dense crowd.

Most of the houses were built side by side, and all were made of stone, which allowed them to rise as high as four stories, though the higher floors were made of wood, with their outer walls sometimes painted in a yellowy-white color, contrasting with the dark timber of their vertical supports. Some of those wooden floors were even made to protrude from the floors below, leaning above the streets in a way that Hiccup found both imprudent and fascinating.

While only few of the buildings had balconies, all of them had lots of windows, and while most of the windows closed with shutters, some were made with a metallic grid, filled with tiles of glass, a material Hiccup had only seen used for precious vials or bottles, for it was considered quite expensive in the north.

Such extravagances should not have been surprising this far south, however, and Hiccup quickly realized why. These people did not suffer from any dragon raids, so their carpenters’ efforts were not going to be wasted in the span of a few summer months. Still, as Hiccup had noticed in his travels, even the southernmost villages of the Archipelago had seemed rather unburdened by the plight of the dragon war, yet neither Nendur nor Thargran had reached _this_ level of lavishness in their common constructions.

Perhaps the mere fact that these mainlanders had never seen a dragon was enough to make their buildings reach for the skies, whereas all Vikings knew the skies did not belong to them. It was a strange thought to consider: a place where people did not fear dragons, for they did not believe in them.

_Such place truly does exist, and people live here! Normal people leading normal lives, yet so completely different from ours._

Hiccup’s mouth was slack with wonder as he absorbed the richness and complexity of this place. Everything around him had been meticulously constructed by expert craftsmen, and every street seemed to have been planned by visionary chiefs... _no,_ _kings_.

_How hard does a king have to work to manage such a place?_ Hiccup asked himself, aware of the amount of work his father put every day into governing a mere village.

_He must have many helpers. That might explain why his castle is so big._

Hiccup could see the great building in the distance, towards the sea, the largest of the streets leading towards it in a perfectly straight line; he only had to turn left...

But, Hiccup decided to continue east, to the river, following the gradually descending street he had been walking. He was curious to see the castle from up close, of course, but there was a strangely intimidating spotlessness in that direction, the houses becoming cleaner, more opulent. Not to mention the increasing number of armed figures patrolling the raised sidewalks towards the castle, some in heavy plate armor, covering every bit of their skin, and even most of their faces.

 They were probably guards of some sort, Hiccup thought, and, as he had done in every other of his recent visits to foreign villages, he preferred to avoid places where he could risk being asked questions, especially if the questions where in a language he did not understand. Despite their intimidating bearing, however, Hiccup allowed himself to cast a few nervous glances towards them, trying to study their armor. It seemed quite impenetrable.

_How did the blacksmith make those joint pieces fit so well?_ He wondered, when the guard he was examining turned towards him.

Hiccup flinched. He spun around in a circle, finally pointing his feet to his former direction, hoping to project the impression of one who had nonchalantly changed his mind, but only looking like a fool instead.

Praying his strange behavior had not sparked the man’s curiosity, he picked up his pace onwards, avoiding that particularly wealthy district, feeling suddenly very self-aware of his appearance. Hiccup had always worried about looking like an outcast when visiting Viking villages, and, though he had hoped the opposite, this was even truer here, where most people could afford to wear colors Hiccup did not even know could penetrate cloth. The only doubts regarding his condition were preserved solely by the heavy pelt around his shoulders, concealing his tattered clothes underneath; only his boots were fairly new.

The street he had picked led him to pass underneath the waterway, which he admired for a while, before moving on. He crossed street after street, when he finally reached the riverbank. To Hiccup, the river looked almost like a lake, so large it was. In fact, it widened and split in two, leaving an island in between, seemingly large enough to fit every Berkian household twice over.

There, two bridges crossed. The largest one took to the island, while a smaller one continued to the other side, their thick, stone arches, much like those Hiccup had seen at the gates, diving to the riverbed, sustaining the large road above. Boats were being rowed underneath them in each direction. Hiccup joined the traffic on the bridge to the island, his eyes darting around, overwhelmed with wonder.

He reached the island, when a loud tolling sound made Hiccup jump. A deep, metallic chime, regular, slow, and mournful. The people around him seemed unconcerned, hence his sense of alarm subsided quickly. Still, he was unable to ignore the strange sound; it almost called to him, so he found his way to the source, led by fresh curiosity.

A huge, round building appeared before him, standing isolated in a large square. Its large double gate was painted half in black, with white runes, and half in white, with black runes. The runes, Hiccup did not recognize. From the dome at the center of the building, a slim tower jutted out towards the sky, and, atop it, swinging, the biggest bell Hiccup had ever seen, its shape resembling that of a hollow sphere. It was so big, that even Stoick the Vast would have been able to fit inside it.

Hiccup’s mind churned with a few awe-fueled calculations.

_How could a blacksmith obtain so much metal?_ Hiccup asked himself. That one bell seemed to contain the weight of all of Berk’s swords and axes put together, and most likely all their nails and arrowheads too.

_That thing could confuse the dragons of a whole raid! How much did it cost?! And why is it ringing?_

As he approached, Hiccup figured the answer to the second question.

Devotees were drawn towards the building like moths to the flame, and every time the black-and-white gate opened for one of them, worshipful chants leaked out; men’s voices producing deep, long _‘ooo’_ s and _‘aaa’_ s, their humming reverberating within the great stone hall.

Hiccup went closer, but did not enter. His nose caught a scent of strong spice fanning out in warm waves. He did not understand the words of the chant (assuming they were actual words), but he found the sound and the thick incense to be both soothing and empowering. His skin prickled, a sense of calm wonder enveloping him. The experience felt ominous and enthralling at the same time. Still, he dared not enter.

Even though entirely different from any Viking place of worship, Hiccup recognized this building as a temple. Walking through the island’s streets, he found two more similar places. Neither of them had a bell, nor black-and-white gates, but they were clearly places of worship of some sort.

Strolling around, mulling about his findings, Hiccup felt a strange sense of disorientation. It was the first time he had seen people worship different gods, and not only that, but probably different religions within walking distance from one another. He found the notion to be disconcerting. After all, how could there be many different faiths at the same time?

_They must agree about some things, otherwise…_

Someone had taken notice of his troubled expression. A completely bald man wearing grey-white robes, a concerned look furrowing his hairless brows. He was coming closer. That’s when Hiccup realized he had stopped walking, standing in the middle of a small plaza, near yet another house of worship. This one was smaller, simpler, but, unlike the others, it had familiar carvings on its wood and stone. _Too_ familiar.

The man called to him in a gentle voice:

“Child?” He said, his accent unfamiliar. “You are Veeking, yes? Clearly, Odin guides you to his temple.”

Hiccup shot another look at the building behind the approaching man, and his mind made the connection.

_Vikings!_

Like a frightened mouse, Hiccup spun around, and ran, darting away as fast as his feet would take him.

Had he been recognized? No, it was not likely. Still, he turned corner after corner, ran over small bridges, sped through stone underpasses, no longer in awe at their vaulted ceilings, the sudden fear making his heart rush. He could not allow himself to even risk being caught. He could not leave his friend flightless, especially in this foreign land.

When he finally stopped to catch his breath, Hiccup realized how stupid he had been.

_Who will I ask for directions, if I’m too afraid to speak to another Viking?!_ Hiccup hid his face in his hands, his forehead damp with cooling sweat. _Thor help me, I’m such an idiot._

Sadly, he feared he had lost his chance with that place; he could not risk going back there, now that he had given the perfect impression of a fugitive. He was going to have to find some other Viking willing to help him out.

To make matters worse, Hiccup found one more reason to fret over his stupidity. A slightly more pressing one.

He was lost.

He had reached a muddy alley. He could not see the river, nor hear the sea. Around him, a maze of narrow streets, much less elegant, much less clean than those of the higher side of the city, the houses in much poorer shape, though still of impressive sizes.

A sickening sense of disorientation began to burn within him. He could no longer tell north from south. As if by some illusion, he began to feel the tall buildings grow taller around him, the streets narrower, the sky more distant. Part of him wanted to claw rabidly at the walls surrounding him, wishing for higher ground. Alas, Hiccup had never been a good climber. He felt a powerful need to fly, but Toothless was too far away for him to call.

Too panicked to stay still, too tired to run, Hiccup took a deep breath, picked a direction, and tried to follow it as best he could, much like one did when lost in a forest. Of course, Hiccup had never gotten lost in a forest, at least not for long. Forests provided plenty of clues regarding direction. The slope of the ground, the position of the sun, the mossier side of the trees. Here, however, the ground was flat, the narrow alleys looked all the same to him, and the buildings were just as tall as trees, and much better at hiding the sun’s position than the canopy of the northern woods.

Soon enough, Hiccup realized the direction he had picked was probably the wrong one, a sense of unease joining his panic as the buildings, now made entirely of wood, turned shabbier at each crossing, the people more reserved, their clothes much more similar to those Hiccup was hiding under his pelt. His hand clutched inadvertently at the pommel of his belt-knife.

Walking those streets, trying to find his way back, Hiccup realized one more thing, which somewhat stained the wonder he had begun to feel for this city. After crossing the river, he had occasionally caught sight of both men and women, some younger than himself, some as old as Gothi, sitting on the sidewalks, stretching their hands to each passerby. Hiccup had not paid them any mind, too overwhelmed by his surroundings to consider what they were doing. Now, seeing more and more such people, in this, much uglier side of the city, Hiccup finally knew what they were.

_Beggars._

Their condition was suddenly obvious, even though Hiccup had never seen the like. In the Viking islands, no man or woman was ever left outside to beg for food or warmth. That kind of treatment was not even reserved to outcasts, who were most often killed long before suffering this kind of humiliation. This meant that, in the Archipelago, any lawful person without food or shelter was always going to be taken in by someone, and, often enough, it was the chief’s household that had the honor to offer protection to the unlucky.

In fact, on Berk, Stoick had erected a large alehouse for that very purpose, hidden just behind the tree-line of the nearby forest, managed by a trusted alewife, namely Helga, who stored only the ale she produced inside, and never food, so as not to attract the flocks of raiding dragons during the summer. The alehouse was open to anyone of course, but it was usually occupied by those who were waiting to rebuild their homes after a dragon raid, though it was also a house for the rare guests that sailed to the island.

Apparently, Tinas had no such place for the downtrodden. It did however have other establishments, some of which Hiccup found to be entirely unfamiliar, like a particular building, the front of which was adorned with ragged, yet colorful drapes hanging from the windows, down to the colonnade that supported its facade. Both under the front porch, and beside the steps that led inside, small clusters of women stood by in the cold, seemingly waiting for something, one smoking a pipe, one adjusting another’s hair.

From the distance, they all seemed dressed quite lavishly for the location, though, when Hiccup got closer, he found no elegance in their dresses, which left so much skin bare, they made little sense in the current season. He inadvertently stopped on his tracks to look at the strange women from across the street. That’s when he noticed the two brawny men sitting there, playing a game on a small table, their darker clothes making them harder to spot under the shadow of the portico.

One of the women, rather stout and mature-looking, though still of handsome features, noticed Hiccup. She grinned at him impishly, and, with one finger, traced a curl of her black hair towards the already low chest-piece of her dress, then slowly pulled down one side of it, revealing a pale, plump breast. She winked at Hiccup, as some of the women sniggered with her. Most of the others, especially the younger girls, looked away, some seeming close to Hiccup’s age, perhaps even younger.

When the two men noticed the exchange, they told the women off with words Hiccup did not understand, then focused back to their game.

Sensing the unexpected mockery, Hiccup unglued his eyes from the woman’s exposed breast, and walked onwards, head bowed, trying to hide both the feeling of humiliation heating his cheeks, and that of excitement tightening his groin, the image of the woman’s small, pink nipple still burning into his mind, making the capricious appendage between his legs almost painfully stiff. He heard laughter rise again, then fade behind him as he quickly left the street.

_What was that?!_ Hiccup wondered, understanding nothing about what had just occurred, yet fighting the urge to go back for another look. Why would a woman tease him like that? What was that place? He could not even begin to guess, and the unfamiliar experience added bafflement to his sense of unease.

Fortunately, not _all_ the places Hiccup came across looked as baffling. There were familiar establishments too in this unfamiliar place, like the taverns, which Hiccup recognized by the smell of roasting food, inaptly mixed with the foul, rancid odors of this district, those of hot tar, stagnant water, and human waste, and, of course, the vomit of drunken patrons, the sight of whom was not new to Hiccup, if not for their timing.

_Drunk before midday?_

The unease inside Hiccup grew further. He decided this was definitely not a good part of the city, and when he entered a street he had already crossed, he quickened his pace, trying a different direction.

After hurrying through a desolated courtyard, he finally stopped on a small, stone bridge, crossing a rather picturesque canal, cradled by an unexpected air of tranquility. The place, while not as neat or clean as the higher side of the city, seemed far less hostile than the slums Hiccup had just fled. In fact, he found it rather charming. He stayed there for a bit, laying his hands on the stone parapet of the bridge. He took a deep breath, and looked up.

The canal forced the buildings apart, allowing Hiccup a broader view of the sky. It was just past noon. The sun hinted at his direction. Hiccup looked down. His direction was confirmed by the flow of the water below him. He was facing downriver. Before him, three more bridges crossed the canal; there were probably many more towards the sea, but Hiccup could not see them as the stream curved, tall buildings trailing its banks on both sides like an endless corridor.

Above the canal, ropes, heavy with wet garments, zigzagged from window to window. Below, on one side of the bank, a low, paved sidewalk touched the water. Stairs of old, creaking wood made it possible to get down there, as had some women, who were boiling water on a large pot, washing clothes together, then emptying their wooden basins into the canal. One woman had also caught the occasion to wash her small children. When done, the little boy and girl began to run about, still naked, yelling, laughing, and fleeing from their mother’s open cloth, buttocks pink in the cold air. The chase ended quickly, when the two began to shiver.

Hiccup realized he was smiling, his eyes finding an unexpected beauty in the simple lives of these mainlanders, a sense of warmth pouring inside of him. How nice it would have been, he thought, to be born a southern child like those two, far from dragon raids and deadly winters; to have mother and father both, farmers, or tanners, or, even better, blacksmiths. Maybe he would have even had a little brother or sister by the time he was seven. A safe life. A simple life. No war. No exile. No bounty on his head.

_No Toothless._

Hiccup’s smile fell like a broken mask. Those were unfair thoughts. He had earned a dragon’s friendship. His life was never going to be simple. He had accepted it long ago, and he still felt privileged for it, despite all that he had suffered. He just had to resist a little longer, and he was going to smile again with his friend, once their lives back on track. He _had_ to hope so.

With renewed sense of purpose, Hiccup finished crossing the bridge, leaving the peaceful canal behind him.

The smells of the lower city did not improve much when he finally reached the docks, but the sounds of bobbing boats and yelling sailors produced an aura of familiarity that made Hiccup feel the slightest bit less out of place. If not for the occasional set of plated armor patrolling the streets, making him tense, Hiccup felt more focused, losing the panic, and regaining part of the wonder he had felt when he had first entered the city. It seemed so long ago now, and it was, if the pain of his feet was any indication. He had probably walked five leagues since morning, and the day was not yet over, though the sun had already begun its descent.

The thought made Hiccup realize how hungry he was, not to mention how thirsty. In fact, he had lost his waterskin during the previous night’s stormy flight, and he had not drunk a drop since.

Searching around, Hiccup spotted a long wooden basin filled with water. Tied to an adjacent railing, a rather small horse was drinking lazily from it. Hiccup joined the unfamiliar animal, and finally quenched his own thirst, cupping the cold water with both hands. When done, he let out a sigh of relief, which was cut short when he noticed how sour and brackish the water had actually tasted. He grimaced, and looked disapprovingly at the horse beside him. Still, when the beast looked back at him, its placid stare made Hiccup melt into a smile, and he suddenly wondered:

_How is Toothless holding up? Is he still sleeping? Has he recovered from the flight?_ _I better hurry. It’ll be sundown soon._

Hiccup said goodbye to the horse, and continued westwards. Walking again along the shore, with a full view of the castle from below, a sight which made it look even more majestic, Hiccup crossed another bridge, back to the island with the many temples, and realized that, in his rush to flee from the Viking priest, he had exited the walls of the city. The tall fortifications now trailed the coastline behind two rows of shops and storage houses, the docks before them bustling with a mixture of people from all parts of the city; some simple sailors, others dressed in finery.

Hiccup considered his options. Sailors did carry maps sometimes, and it made sense that they could speak more languages. He still felt unsafe. What if a Berserker had reached this place? It no longer seemed such an unlikely notion.

Hiccup rubbed his temples. Had he always been so wary of other people? When had it become a struggle to simply talk to other humans?

Roaming about the docks, thinking, Hiccup’s curiosity was caught by the sight of a tall, elegant man, wearing a long coat, dark blue of color, with strange reflections suggesting some sort of silver embroidery. His beard was black as ink, trimmed neat and very short, which was definitely _not_ in the Viking fashion. The man had a confident posture, hands behind his back, fingers turning a single golden ring. Despite his appearance, there was no vanity in the way he spoke as he issued orders to the captain of a very large ship. The captain had his leather cap in his hands, and was nodding politely, while his men unloaded sacks and crates from the ship.

Hiccup detected a few careful guardsmen spread nearby, discreet but vigilant, creating a comfortable zone of protection around the unmistakably important man. Hiccup moved along slowly, trying to keep away from the invigilated circle, making himself small, his eyes always fixed on those men, even as he finally surpassed them.

“Veeking?”

Hiccup started. He whirled towards the female voice, cold sweat prickling his skin, nerves tensing just like the grey cat which, at Hiccup’s sudden movement, leaped away, and scurried into an alley. Unlike that cat, however, Hiccup froze in place.

“ _Aww,_ ” complained the girl, who had been petting the animal.

Hiccup looked up, and felt his jaw slack.

On a small pyramid of crates and barrels, an eruption of long, chestnut curls, gleaming bronze in the afternoon sunlight, framed a fair, oval-shaped face, with skin darker than the average Viking, dark-amber eyes, and generous lips. While not stout by any means, the girl was not an ill-fed figure, her feminine curves suggesting a slightly older age than Hiccup’s, though the impression was probably intensified by her dress.

The girl wore what was surely a tailor’s lifetime achievement; striking, yet at the same time totally different from the lavish garments Hiccup had seen on those women in the slums. This one was much plainer, but, well... flawless. Made of dark-green silks, rippling with few simple folds, covering layers of white, embroidered wool, it was tight-fitting at the waist, discreetly full around her chest, but high-necked, not at all revealing, its elegance tarnished only faintly by some mud along the hem, and the girl’s slumped, tired posture. She was sitting cross-legged, elbows leaning on her knees, a bored expression on her face.

A sense of inadequacy fell upon Hiccup like an avalanche. He tightened his pelt around his shoulders, trying to hide his ragged clothes underneath. He felt suddenly worse than naked. In fact, he was sure that having his breeches pulled down in Berk’s great hall (something he remembered Fishlegs to have once suffered as a prank) would have been a far less mortifying experience.

Still, despite the pressure he felt, Hiccup could not keep his eyes from the girl. Before him, he realized, was an actual lady, like those of the stories. Was he supposed to apologize and get out of her way? Was he supposed to bow? He could not. He _would_ not. After all, Vikings bowed to no one, not even their own chiefs, and, for once, Hiccup was thankful for his upbringing. Bowing would have meant taking his eyes off the girl’s figure, depriving himself of her beauty.

The young lady slid to a lower crate, sitting again, now closer to Hiccup, though still looking down on him. To Hiccup’s surprise, there was no condescension in her eyes, only mild curiosity, which soon turned into puzzlement.

“Hmm, ne. Tarsi ne,” she said in the southern tongue, then seemed to change her mind: “But… you _look_ Veeking. You _are_ , true? Understand the what I say, no?”

Her accent was not far from what Hiccup had heard in the southern islands of the Archipelago, but her grammar was clearly off. Hiccup smiled at the strange phrasing. There was something endearing about it, though he could not tell what. He swallowed, feeling his own heartbeat.

“What gave it away?” He grinned uneasily, finding in sarcasm his only source of confidence. “It’s because of my big muscles, isn’t it? They’ve always been my gift.” He flexed an arm, then hid it quickly back under his pelt, his face flushed. Had he not just drunk? Why did his tongue feel so parched?

The girl looked unimpressed, and Hiccup suddenly regretted his own humor. He had hoped to provoke at least a smile, or a raised eyebrow, or _anything_. What if he had offended her? Perhaps it was time to leave. He considered following that cat into the alley.

“I don’t know what is _bigmassels_ ,” the girl finally replied, obviously struggling with the language. Hiccup let out the breath he was holding, relief flooding his chest. “No,” she continued, “at first, it was for the wears. But after, I saw your… color. Then, I was ready to bet. And I was right!” Her expression brightened with self-satisfaction.

“Color?” Hiccup asked.

“Yes. The… _grass_ , inside your eyes.”

“I have grass inside my _eyes?!_ ” Hiccup rubbed his eyes with mock urgency. “How about now? Is it gone?”

It was only for an instant, but the young lady surrendered a view of her perfect teeth, a brilliant row of white amusement.

Hiccup felt it like a victory. Not only had he made a girl smile, but a southern lady at that! So far, he had only managed to make Berkian girls laugh with mockery, but never mirth. Part of him knew of course that, for most northern people, the two things usually coincided; there was rarely room for actual wit or comedy on Berk, and even less so within the more dutiful members of the tribe, like, most notably, Astrid Hofferson, whose laughter was as rare as the sight of a Night Fury in midwinter.

A wave of discomfort washed over Hiccup at the memory of the Viking maiden. Distant feelings, hopeless dreams, shoved aside by recent struggles, reemerged without prompt, unwelcome. Hiccup tried to ignore them, and he was almost disappointed to realize it was easier than expected. Was it because he had left the Archipelago?

“Not grass eyes like _that_ ,” the young lady said, shaking her head, lips still curved in a faint smile. “I mean, what is the color… green! _Telema!_ Not grass. Green and blue eyes, usually you island-peoples have them.”

“Oh… I… I hadn’t noticed,” Hiccup muttered, scrambling for something else to say. He did not wish to excuse himself already; he did not wish to leave her presence. It felt like too great an honor.

“But you _are_ strange for a Veeking,” she said, narrowing her eyes, scanning him. “You look… like a _real_ ‘ _barbaric’_ of the north. But also _not_ like that.”

“Yeah, that’s me alright,” Hiccup replied absently. Yet, he found he was unsatisfied with his response. Feeling a sudden urge to impress the girl, he considered adding: _‘I can ride a dragon, though,’_ but, fortunately, held his tongue.

“Why are you in Tinas?” The girl asked. “Have you a relative from here? You don’t speak common, no?”

“No,” he admitted, “I can only speak, well… _Veeking,_ I guess.” He chuckled. “It’s my first time here. I’m actually looking for a map.”

She gave him a dubious look. “A map? To where?”

_To the safest, most secluded mountain,_ Hiccup thought, but instead replied: “I don’t know yet.”

Silence fell between them. Was he supposed to go now? No, she was still looking at him; he had not been dismissed.

“My…” the girl began tentatively, “ _truths-master_ , I think is the word, he has books and maps of many types. It is _he_ that teaches me your language. His name is Dàlaras. He is Aticasi. He has a shop, not far, near the Temple of the Two. Finding it is easy. But…” she looked hesitant, scanning him once again from head to toe, “no matter. You must go that way.” Without looking, she pointed with an index over her shoulder.

Hiccup could not help but smile back at the information, even after imagining how his slightly crooked front-teeth looked compared to her perfect ones. To think _she_ had been the one to help him! He had to thank her properly; but how?

Before he could decide what words to use, Hiccup’s ears caught the sound of clunking metal behind him. He turned warily, and staggered aside, making way for two armored men, their helmets cradled in one arm, the other hand on the sword-hilts at their sides.

Seeing their naked faces, Hiccup found neither of them to be particularly frightening, especially compared to any Viking dragon-killer. This was perhaps why he did not flee at their sight. Yet, there was actually another reason too. Most pressingly, he did not want to look like a coward before the noble girl. He had already made a fool of himself once today. Besides, the two men, though disdainfully, regarded him only briefly, before one of them asked the young lady a polite question in the southern tongue.

The girl replied dismissively, and the two exchanged more words, which Hiccup could not understand. Finally, the girl climbed down the pyramid of crates, disregarding the man’s offer of help.

“My father calls,” she said. “Hope you find your map, Veeking that don’t look Veeking.” Then, after offering him one last, small, exquisite smile, she turned, and walked away, the two men following.

Dazed by her graceful expression, and disappointed by her abrupt departure, Hiccup lost his voice. He merely stood there, his mouth dry, and could only watch as the two guards escorted the young lady towards the man in the dark-blue coat.

Frustrated, Hiccup left the docks, making his way towards the inner city, scolding himself for failing to thank the girl for her help. He had not even said goodbye. He had not even asked her name!

_Great, now she definitely thinks me a ‘barbaric of the north’,_ Hiccup thought, his heart heavy with shame. His sole source consolation: he was probably never going to see that girl again. _I’ll be leaving this place anyway._

Remembering the instructions the girl gave him, and realizing that the ‘Temple of the Two’ was actually the one with the black-and-white gate, Hiccup spotted what seemed a likely place for selling parchment, books, and, with some luck, even maps. He would have never recognized it, were it not for the wooden shop-sign jutting out of the building, swinging from a wrought-iron bracket beside the entrance door. Hiccup could not read the curvy runes carved into the board, but they did suggest the presence of a shop, or so he guessed, since Vikings had no use for such signs in their comparatively tiny villages, where workshops were few, and everyone knew everyone’s trade.

The stone building was more tall than wide, squeezed between two larger structures. There were only two windows on each floor, and a barred one on the ground-floor beside the entrance. Hiccup tried to peer inside through the murky glass behind the iron bars. It was dark, but his eyes saw a long, rectangular table, and a longer counter, the wall behind which was completely lined with shelves.

_This must be the place._

Stifling his trepidation, Hiccup entered the shop. A thin, tubular bell rang hollowly as he pushed the heavy door.

Not for the first time today, Hiccup gazed at his surroundings, mouth open. He had never seen so much parchment in one place. There were probably more scrolls and books lying around in this small room, than in the whole Archipelago. Despite the dimness of the room, he counted more than thirty leather-bound tomes, most bigger than the Book of Dragons, and much better cared for. Most of them were stored on the shelves behind the counter, but there were a couple on the table at the center of the room. Hiccup moved to it, and opened the bigger one, lifting a heavy embossed cover, decorated with brass corners and studs. He browsed the wide, densely-written pages, admiring the unfamiliar craftsmanship.

“Ve tu vas, djone?” A voice asked, calm, but wary.

Hiccup looked up, withdrawing his hand from the precious tome, as if burned. A small door had opened silently behind the counter. There, filling its frame, stood an old man with a rather rotund belly. His features were soft, his face shaved, and skin thrice as tanned as that of any northern fisherman, yet strangely unmarred by the effects of sea and wind. He was bald, except for a pair of bushy eyebrows, and a few strands of grey hair at the back of his head, which he kept at shoulder length, lending him a rather disheveled appearance, and contrasting starkly with his fine clothes. However, despite his unfavorable looks, the man had affable, if sleepy eyes, which were currently looking at Hiccup, a thin veil of worry steadying them.

“Hi… uhmm… are you Dàlaras? Do you speak _Veeking_?” Hiccup asked nervously, embracing the southern pronunciation of the word, hoping it would facilitate their conversation. It proved unnecessary.

“Oh! A _Viking_ ,” the man said with relief, his accent as perfect as that of any southern norseman. Chuckling, he fully entered the room to stand behind the counter. “And a _real_ one at that! For a moment, I feared I had to call the city watch,” he guffawed. “Don’t get many patrons who dress like Vikings, you see. Fact is, I don’t get Viking patrons at all, especially of _your_ kind.”

Hiccup’s eyebrows twisted. “What kind is that?”

“You are from the _north_ north, are you not?”

Hiccup stiffened, his hands suddenly clammy. How could this man know?! Sure, northern Vikings were different to an attentive eye. They were rougher, and had slightly more menacing bearings, but that was exactly why Hiccup had never been taken for one, even by the Vikings of the southern islands.

“What makes you say that?” Hiccup asked, trying to conceal his surprise with a nonchalant smile, which came out rather as a smirk of unease.

“The way you voice your words; it’s a bit different from the Vikings that usually come from Nendur and Kattegat. Let me guess, you must be a Tharg- no, maybe not. You are… what was the name… Balhem? Balhemi? You are from Balheim, right?” The man’s expression brimmed with satisfaction at his own knowledge.

Hiccup let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. To his immense relief, the man was wrong, and by about a dozen days of sailing at that. Was Balheim the northernmost island this man knew of? If that was the case, then Hiccup had no reason to fear. However, this man was surprisingly knowledgeable, and dangerously observant. He had to be careful.

Reassured that his true origins were still a secret, Hiccup fueled his voice with fake enthusiasm: “Yes, actually. How did you know? You’ve ever been in Balheim?” He asked, and decided to add a few details to his lie, to prevent suspicion. “I was apprentice to the blacksmith there, Asmund. You know him?”

“Oh, no,” the man said, making an airy gesture with his hand, “life had me travel many lands, but crossing the Wicked Waters? No. While I’d certainly love to see a living dragon, I don’t think these two old legs could take the journey.” There was pause. “So, you asked for Dàlaras. Well, you’ve found him. Now, what brings so young a Northman to this humble bookbinder? Afraid I don’t have much written in this language. Sadly, you Vikings are not famed for your scholarly arts, especially you northern ones. Axes and blades, am I right?”

It seemed the man was expecting his patron to agree, and perhaps reply: ‘yeah, books are for weaklings!’ or something along those lines. Instead, an involuntary chuckle escaped Hiccup’s throat. He tried to cover it with a cough, but he inadvertently sucked spit into his lungs, and it turned into an actual coughing fit.

Dàlaras looked perplexed at the reaction. Hiccup could not blame him. The man had no way to know the irony of his words.

“So…” Dàlaras repeated, “need something, boy? If you are searching for an interpreter, I’m afraid you ought to look elsewhere. I charge gold for that sort of thing, and, no offense but…” His eyes scanned Hiccup’s figure.

“ _Gold?_ ” Hiccup croaked, stunned, his voice still hoarse from the cough.

_Is this man’s trade that profitable?_

“You may have better luck in your faith’s church,” the man went on. “It’s four streets south of here, in _Odeeno’s_ square. Just don’t confuse it for Odal square; the temple there will provide no help to a Viking. The One’s faith does not get along with you ‘ _angel_ -killers’, or any of the other faiths for that matter. Not that the others are much better... but…” he lowered his voice, murmuring almost to himself, “guess there’s little to be done in that regard. Mothers of idiots are always pregnant.” He sighed and cleared his throat. “But, we are not supposed to point such things out, even with the war and all...”

Hiccup frowned again. He had only listened to half of what the talkative man was saying, but he had already dismissed his suggestion. He dared not go back to the Viking temple after the stunt he had pulled off. They were going to ask him questions there. Besides, he did not need an interpreter.

“I just need a map,” Hiccup said. “A map of the mainland.”

The bookbinder straightened. “The mainland… You mean a map of the _whole_ continent? Boy, I don’t think you’ll find such artifact in this city. Not a readable one anyway. Perhaps not even the King has one. And if he does, it’s likely painted on some palace-wall in Nym. You may have better luck asking the Archon of Anirun himself. In fact, they might have one or two in the Academia _,_ but they’ll be just for show; too lacking in detail to be any use. Why would you possibly need such a thing?”

Hiccup cocked his head, confused. Had it really been an unreasonable demand? How big could the mainland be?

“I like to travel,” he replied casually.

The bookbinder blinked, then gurgled with mirth. “Travel the continent? You Vikings are truly something.” He shook his head. Yet, after seeing his patron’s serious expression, he went on: “ _Anyway_... you may find I have enough smaller maps to piece out most of the continent. But… for so many maps, we are still talking gold here. Perhaps you can start with a map of this kingdom. I guarantee it will be enough for a month on horseback in almost any direction but north. Still, keep in mind that even the simplest maps of the kingdom sell for quite a bit of silver.”

Hiccup nodded thoughtfully to himself. “How much for just seeing one?”

“That depends. If you want to consult it here, I think a copper will do for today. You must have one heck of a memory, though.”

Hiccup grinned. “A map of this kingdom, then. Can I see one for a while?”

Dàlaras stared at Hiccup once again, still rather perplexed. Then, seeming entertained by the young patron, he shrugged. “Wait here,” he said, and disappeared behind the small door to the back of the shop.

He returned holding a long leather case under one arm. He smiled knowingly at Hiccup. “This is one of the best I have of Erfar, so be careful with it.”

Dàlaras walked from the back of the counter, to the large table at the center of the shop. Hiccup followed, and watched expectantly as the man loosened the laces of the case, and pulled out the parchment, which was rolled around two long wooden rods, with pommels at each end. He spread out the map, and placed two decorative marble-blocks on its surface, so it wouldn’t roll back on itself.

Hiccup stared at it. Despite its generous size, the map was incredibly detailed, and, to Hiccup’s utmost surprise, it sported different colors. The towns were drawn as tiny red-roofed houses, and the rivers were filled with a greenish ink, which had probably been blue at some point. The borders were drawn with black ink, as were the mountains. The labels were also black, and they were written with those southern, unreadable runes. Still, Hiccup thought he recognized the Wicked Waters by the twirly waves drawn in green.

“This is Tinas, right?” He asked, pointing at one of the largest coastal cities.

The man nodded beside him, letting out a hum of approval. “Indeed! And this is the capital, Nym,” he said, pointing to a city much further to the south. He then dragged a chair near him, and sat down, groaning at some pain. “Go ahead and ask if you have questions, but keep in mind I don’t do business after sundown this time of year.”

Hiccup nodded and began studying the large map. He spotted the drawing of a seemingly isolated mountain-chain, and chose it as his next destination for the winter. He still needed something more tangible with him, lest he forget the lay of the land.

He reached underneath his pelt, under all three of his tunics, and pulled out his journal.

The man looked up, and raised an eyebrow.

“May I?” Hiccup asked.

Dàlaras shrugged. Curious, he leaned closer to look at what his guest was doing.

Hiccup opened a blank page, and, with his charcoal-point pencil, he started copying the broader details of the map, picking only the information he found necessary, and writing labels whenever drawing took too long. He tried to be as quick as possible, without sacrificing precision.

Pausing to sharpen the charcoal-point with his knife, Hiccup looked at the bookbinder, and saw eyes wide with surprise.

“Something wrong?” He asked, putting back the small blade.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Erland,” Hiccup lied, as he had prepared.

Dàlaras hummed to himself. “That’s some skill you have there, Erland. Who taught you to draw?”

Hiccup did not know whether to feel confused, or flattered; his drawing technique had never been complimented before.

“I wasn’t really taught,” he said. “I just learnt by drawing plans for my work at the smithy.” That was not a lie.

Dàlaras raised both eyebrows. “Remarkable _._ If you told me you learnt at the Academia, I would probably believe you. You are making a very good copy in so little time. Perhaps I should charge you more.” He grinned.

Hiccup was not sure if the man was joking. He hoped so, and grinned back uneasily. “The Academia?” He asked, trying to divert the man from the subject of payment.

“You don’t know of it, do you? I guess that’s not surprising for a Viking. You see, there are many schools in the ‘mainland’ _,_ as you say. Places where people go to learn and research many things. However, when most people say: ‘the Academia,’ they usually refer to the one in Anirun. You won’t find it on this map. It’s much further south from here, in another… well… it’s not really a kingdom, but I don’t know the word in your language. I studied there for eight years when I was young.”

The bookbinder looked away wistfully. “You Vikings say your god Odin sacrificed his eye to acquire knowledge, right? Well, there are scholars in the desert city who’ve sacrificed far more. And you should see its library. It is said that millions of scrolls and books reside within its walls. A building so large and so tall, you could see as far as the docks of this very city, if you stood on it rooftop.”

Hand still working on his miniature version of the map, Hiccup tried to imagine such a place, but a thought stopped him. He grimaced. “That’s impossible,” he said confidently. “You would not be able to breathe up there, if they were _that_ high.”

The man looked back in Hiccup’s eyes. A slow, sly, smile pulled on his lips. Then, he laughed heartily. “And smart too! Right you are, boy! Indeed! How come you know so much about heights? I didn’t think Vikings were familiar with tall mountains. And, who taught you about the world’s shape? I know of very few people who would be able to make the objection you just made.”

Hiccup froze, his mind racing, as was his heart. He tried to keep the latter from making his hands tremble as he drew. “I used to hear things…” he said, “you know… Lots of travelers came to the smithy for repairs, so…” he trailed off, resuming his work, praying it was a sufficient lie. He could clearly not confess to discovering such things by flying on a dragon’s back.

Dàlaras hummed again, a pleased look on his face. Still sitting, he leaned over Hiccup’s work, studying it more closely. He allowed Hiccup to work in silence, until the map was nearly copied.

“Forgive me for prying, Erland, but why are you traveling this kingdom? I once heard of a rite of passage where young Vikings leave to spend one winter away from home as a test of strength, but I thought the rite demanded that you stay on your own islands. And, besides, I thought it was only a myth, one of many regarding you Vikings, I believe.”

Hiccup did not look up from his work, and took some time to ponder his next lie. He had to be careful; this man was far too knowledgeable. In fact, the rite of passage he was mentioning did exist, though Hiccup knew of no one who had participated for certain. There were only rumors spread to the other villages by proud chiefs, usually about their firstborn sons, like, most recently, the one about Dagur the Deranged surviving such a trial. Still, most people regarded them as false boasts. It was a common practice, especially during the Thing. Stoick the Vast had never attempted to make the same claim about his own son, of course. Not only would nobody believe him, but they were going to laugh at him. Regardless, no one truly dared to leave the village for the winter, at least in the northern islands. Jumping off a cliff would have been a more merciful death. And besides, few households could afford one less pair of working arms.

“No, I’m not here for any trial,” Hiccup said. “Truth is, I travel with my brother. Our parents died a long time ago, and the smithy of our village took me and my brother as apprentices, but the smithy has his own sons now, and we can’t stay with him anymore. We decided to cross the Wicked Waters. People said life is less harsh here, and the winters warmer. The part about the winter seems true at least, though not as much as I had hoped.”

The bookbinder leaned back into the wooden chair. “Sorry to hear about your parents, Erland,” he said, concern furrowing his brows. “Where is your brother now?”

Hiccup had begun preparing for that question ever since the word ‘brother’ had escaped his mouth. “He’s waiting for me, looking after our stuff. One of our bags broke, and after I find the map, I also need to search for a needle and some thread.”

The man nodded. He looked away thoughtfully, humming. He stood up then, and walked into the back-room. There was a sound of steps on wooden stairs, as the man climbed to one of the upper floors.

Hiccup finished copying the map, and waited for the man to come back for his payment. When he heard steps again, Hiccup put his journal back underneath his tunics, and rose.

The man returned with a small ball of linen-thread, and two strong needles piercing it.

“Here,” he said, “I use these to bind books, but they’ll work just as well for your bags, I think.”

Dazed with relief, Hiccup took them, and felt himself relax, like a sail when the wind halts. He had found everything he needed.

_This is too much luck for one day_ , he thought; _there has to be a downside to this._

“How much?” He asked.

Dàlaras waved a dismissive hand, and sat tiredly on his chair again. “I’ll ask no coin of you today, Erland. But I will ask that you go to your brother, and consider this together. If you still plan to travel the kingdom, I bid you a safe journey. But if instead you think you’ve travelled far enough, I’ll make you an offer. You see, clever minds and precise hands like yours are too rare this far north. I’ve been dismissing apprentices for years. But if you care to learn my trade, and if you are willing to study some languages, I could really use your skills to help me copy books and maps. I also have no wife, so there’s no risk of me making… _replacements,_ anytime soon. As for your brother, if he’s half as good as you are, he can help too. And if not, I’m sure I can find him a smithy to work in. I do have a few acquaintances.”

Hiccup’s eyes suddenly stung. He had to look away, pretending to think. He was not used to witnessing such generosity, and, once again, in the span of just three days, he was being offered a place and occupation by a total stranger. Why did his skills appear so useful to everyone lately? Reading. Drawing. Smithing. Did those things grant such privileges in the south? They had always seemed so irrelevant on Berk.

He considered the latest offer. A life among books, and knowledge beyond anything any Viking could imagine. It was enticing, sure, but he had already dismissed it in his head, just like the offer of the sailor he had met in Nendur, who had asked him to become a deckhand on his ship. Hiccup had been rather drunk then, and he had managed to voice his refusal easily. Now, his tongue was stuck to his palate, grateful, but speechless.

“No need to tell me now,” Dàlaras continued. “Go to your brother, and talk it over with him.”

Hiccup nodded, his throat still tight. Then, he thought of Toothless, and felt his resolve return, along with his voice. “Thank you,” he said, “that’s very generous. But I don’t think I can accept. I’m sorry.”

The bookbinder named Dàlaras smiled, though his eyes did not hide some disappointment.

Hiccup thanked the man twice more, then bid him farewell, and left the shop, feeling heartened, but also rather anxious. Sunset was drawing near. He had to go back to Toothless, and he had to do it fast, if he didn’t want nightfall to catch up with him. There was no time to buy the fish Hiccup had promised his friend.

Hiccup began jogging westwards, trusting his memory of the streets. He soon exited the city, crossed the fields, then climbed up the hill, and finally reached the forest. All the while, his mind churned with images of Tinas and all its contradictions, its beauty and its ugliness; so much of both in one place. Hiccup tried to save those memories into his mind. The kind bookbinder, the young lady, the Viking priest, and even that strange woman who had teased and laughed at him.

Once Hiccup entered the forest, he started running, following the glimpses of a rapidly setting sun, its warm glow making the red leaves above even redder. They had landed quite far from the city, and before Hiccup could find their landing spot, the sun disappeared under the horizon, leaving only a cold, blue twilight. Still, he did not lose his way, and, before long, he recognized the place where he and Toothless had slept the night before.

Only, Toothless was not there. What was there, instead, made Hiccup’s marrow turn to ice.

The ground looked as if it had been stomped by a herd of angry yaks. There were scorch marks and burnt leaves, and even small craters, where blood had pooled, and had long been absorbed into the dirt.

Shards of wood and shining metal were scattered on the forest’s floor; rings of broken mail, the tip of a blade, pieces of a chain, melted, and, amidst all that, despite the darkness, something darker, yet still glistening. A Night Fury’s scale.

Hiccup’s heart sunk.

_This is not happening. I am still in a dream. This is not real._

He spun around, once, then twice, then more, searching in every direction, hoping Toothless would appear between the trees. But, no dragon came, and he grew only dizzier and dizzier.

He slumped onto the ground, breathless, lost, terrified. Silver spots swam into his eyes. Darkness narrowed his vision. He was aware that he was fainting, but did not fight back, unwilling to face the dreadful notion:

_Toothless has been captured, or worse…_

Hiccup fell, unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have recently made some substantial revisions to the previous chapters after receiving some very useful feedback by the awesome Dyannehs, who is an expert on all things Vikings. I therefore thank her, and wholeheartedly recommend her very interesting articles on Viking culture, which you can find on her tumblr blog by the name "dyannehs".


	28. Die to Fly

**_Previously, on Fly to Live:_ **

_Having decided that the Archipelago will never be safe for him and Toothless, Hiccup has crossed the Wicked Waters, and has finally reached the city of Tinas, in Erfar, the closest kingdom of the mainland. He visits the huge, spectacular city by himself, in search for a map and for materials to repair his friend’s damaged tailfin._

_Thanks to the curiosity of a young, handsome lady, and the kindness of an old, erudite bookbinder, Hiccup finds both. However, when he returns to the forest, to join Toothless and prepare him for their departure to some isolated mountain where to safely spend the winter, the dragon is no longer there. What Hiccup finds instead are clear signs of a fight._

_Overtaken by panic, exhaustion, and hunger, Hiccup collapses, as the last remnants of sunlight fade away, and night falls upon the mainland._

* * *

**(Hiccup)**

 

Hiccup came to his senses, feeling the cold of the winter’s night tighten around his bones. He was not even shivering, so numb he was. Had he remained unconscious for much longer, he would have certainly died. He needed to get up and move, to regain some body temperature. He knew this, and yet, some part of him held him to the ground.

Was it all over? Was his life finally at an end? Without Toothless, what else could possibly await him? Only misery, though even that was not going to last long, before death took him eventually. He could not survive without his friend. He could very well anticipate the inevitable, and lay there, waiting for whatever afterlife the gods chose for the likes of him, an outcast, a failure, and a coward too, apparently.

Of course, Hiccup was not sure whether his own gods had any power so far from home, but it seemed prudent to assume that none of the southern gods, whose temples he had discovered just yesterday, would be any more approving of such behavior. So, with a strenuous effort of will, Hiccup  tried to summon his anger, as he had the night he had found his other dragon-friends dead.

Without Toothless beside him, however, he felt weak. He had no confidence, no strength. Still, he had to get up. Perhaps Toothless was alive. He could not just give up. Not yet. Not until he was sure it was all over.

_I can always die tomorrow._

It was an oddly comforting thought, and it helped him rise from the layer of crumbling leaves on the ground.

The movement made him very aware of how cold he truly was. He began shivering frantically, and, for a moment, dying seemed like the easier option. He also realized how terribly hungry he was. He had not eaten in about a day and a half. He then remembered something, and searched the battle-scarred ground around him. Luckily, despite the darkness, he found what he was looking for.

Tossed beside a tree, opened by someone and obviously discarded, Hiccup spotted the bundle of dried meat he had saved from his broken basket, during their crossing of the Wicked Waters. The meat inside had been moistened by the storm the day before, and was now somewhat dry again, but, alas, it was not going to be any good in the future. Dry meat could spoil once rehydrated. Maybe it had gone bad already. Hiccup hoped otherwise, and picked up a few slivers. He tried to study them in the darkness, raising them to the starlight, which shined dimly through the branches above.

He shook off one small insect, but saw no maggots, so he bit a slice.

That batch of dry meat had never tasted particularly good, and mild moisture and apprehension were now making it taste even worse, despite his hunger. Hiccup decided he could not afford to get sick from eating spoiled meat, so he closed his eyes, swallowed the slice he had already put in his mouth, hoping it would grant him some energy, then tossed the rest. He still had three silver coins; he could survive a while with those in the city.

Hiccup took a deep, cold breath. He tried to open his mind, to reach out, hoping to hear Toothless speak, to feel his presence. He heard nothing. There had always been a limit to the reach of his inner hearing. Still, there _was_ something, wasn’t there? He closed his eyes, and focused.

Then again, maybe not. His mind was not as capable as he had hoped. After all, he could never connect to Toothless on his own.

Hiccup searched the ground once more, focusing with strenuous concentration on all his other senses.

The captors had obviously hauled Toothless away from the place, and, soon enough, Hiccup found a wide groove on the forest’s floor. It was intermittent; someone had tried to cover it with leaves, but it was deep, and Hiccup could still follow the trail, eastwards and southwards. He moved on, as the forest began to descend towards what he now knew was the valley of Tinas city.

Abruptly, the groove seemed to deviate from a straight path. Leaves seemed to have been displaced here as well, and…

_…another scorch-mark!_

In the night, Hiccup had smelled the burnt sap and wood, before seeing the source. A tree’s trunk sported a charred patch, and so did the surrounding ground. It was small for a Night Fury’s blast, but it still had that very distinct dragon-fire scent.

Toothless had fought them off again here. They had not muzzled him properly perhaps, and he had tried to free himself. He had clearly failed, but this was terrific news.

_He’s been taken alive!_

Hiccup smiled; tears of relief gathered at the corners of his eyes. This was not the time to celebrate, however. He still had to find him.

Something cracked in the distance behind him. A piece of wood, perhaps a stick or a crunching of leaves, soft, but loud enough for Hiccup’s ears to somehow locate it. Was someone still out here?

_Of course! They just found a dragon wearing a saddle! They must have left scouts in the area._

But then, why had they not caught him already? Had they missed him? Sure, it was dark, and he was small, wrapped in a dark-brown pelt, but still… Had he been mistaken for a wild animal? Had Loki, master of all disguises, smiled upon him? Hiccup would not let such luck go to waste.

_Or am I?_

For a moment, Hiccup considered showing himself to the scouts. It was the quickest way to join Toothless again. Quick, brave, but ultimately very stupid. It was the worst possible course of action, if he wanted to actually free his friend. No, he needed to remain unseen at all costs. Thus, stealthily, like the times on Old Balheim when he had taught himself how to sneak up on rabbits with a knife, Hiccup sprinted ahead, careful not to be heard, guided by dim starlight, following the grove in the ground and the now unmistakable tracks of men.

The tracks led him south-east, and Hiccup came out of the forest upon a steep, rocky hillside, further south from the city, which he could still see to his left, torches and lamps illuminating its walls and towers in flickering patches. There seemed to be many more farms in this part of the valley.

Hiccup took the most obvious path downhill, and tracks and instincts led him to a large, wooden barn. Then, checking his surroundings to make sure he was alone, he sneaked into the barn through one small side-door. It had no latch or lock. In fact, the whole structure was in quite the state of disrepair.

Inside, the place was spacious, and, though darkness swallowed every corner, Hiccup could still see it was utterly empty; suspiciously so. No animals, no hay, no feed. Nothing. Only mere dust, which seemed to have been recently swept, for there were no tracks displacing it anywhere on the floor. Hiccup suddenly feared a trap, and left the place in absolute silence.

Hiding again amongst the crops of the fields surrounding the barn, under the cover of night, Hiccup forced himself to stop and think. Was the barn a dead end? No, Toothless had obviously been taken there at some point. Yet, as Hiccup checked the road at the other side of the barn, he found no groove in the dirt leading away from it, only hoofmarks and wheel-lines, which were rather common signs on the dirt-roads of this kingdom, as he had noticed the previous day.

_What did they do in there?_

Crouching on the ground, rubbing his forehead, the answer formed slowly into his mind.

_They are keeping him a secret!_

Dragons were famously uncommon here in the mainland, so news of a captured dragon nearby would have likely caused panic in the city. Whoever was in charge here was clearly not an idiot.

_Yes, they dragged Toothless from the forest, and hid him in this barn during the day, so he would not be seen. Then, they probably tied him to a wheeled cart, concealing him somehow, and then they took him away, pulled by horses. If they are being so careful, maybe they waited for nightfall before taking him away. Maybe they are still on the road!_

Hiccup tensed, and quickly took the dirt-road leading away from the barn. He followed the wheel-tracks towards the southern edge of the city. He tried to hurry, but found nobody on his path.

Before reaching the southern gate of the city, Hiccup noticed that, from this side, the buildings continued far outside the city walls. There were mostly taverns and stables, but also normal houses, and some people seemed to be already awake at this time, strolling casually in and out of a few establishments, and even in and out of the city.

At the gate, Hiccup saw guards patrolling the battlements along the walls, looking down sleepily on the few pedestrians. Fortunately, they paid little mind to him as he entered the city. Nobody seemed to be looking for young, scruffy, Viking boys.

Once inside, Hiccup hurried onwards, cautiously as he could, avoiding the much fewer guards around at night, and staying near the same road from which he had entered the city, and which seemed to be leading directly to the castle.

He was only halfway to his supposed destination, when day began to break, the sky to his right glowing faintly already. He ran faster, hoping to intercept the cart that he was sure was carrying Toothless.

Unfortunately, when he finally got to the castle, ignoring the beauties and extravagances of this side of the city, Hiccup found nothing, except for another ring of stone walls, and a wide, vaulted entrance, its portcullis lowered, two fully armored warriors standing by it. The two men had tall, decorated halberds in their hands, which they did not point at him. He was clearly not a threat. They both looked surprised however, and one actually scowled at him.

“Ve tu nomàs si vàre, radlo?” The man barked. “Vàane! _Saerìs!_ ”

Hiccup did not understand the words, but the sentiment was rather obvious. He was being asked to leave, and not in a polite manner.

Hiccup did not move. He tried to peer into the castle’s bailey through the iron grate of the portcullis, unwilling to give up on the probably futile chase, but the man stepped forward menacingly, preparing for a kick, shouting:

“Saerìs! Otto radlo butàri!”

At that, Hiccup scrambled back, realizing he was not going to be able to save Toothless if they decided to imprison him for whatever crime he was committing by standing there. Heart beating in his throat, he fled to his right, passing underneath the tall aqueduct, and scuttling down a steep, zig-zagging path in the cliff, which led him quickly to the docks. Looking back, the guard had not chased after him.

What was he to do now? What had he even hoped to achieve by coming here? How could he hope to sneak into an actual castle? Most importantly, how could he hope to free Toothless, surely the most treasured prisoner in the history of this southern place? All assuming the dragon had actually been brought here, of course, though it was not an entirely senseless assumption; Hiccup could somehow feel Toothless nearby, at least within the city.

Was his inner ear playing tricks with him? Was Toothless attempting to reach him? He could not be sure. It felt more like an instinct. His instincts had never been particularly reliable in the past. Could he trust them now?

Regardless, he saw no other choice. This was his only lead, and he _had_ to save Toothless. But, as he tried to devise a plan, the impossibility of the task fell over him, crushing the last remnants of his optimism. There was nothing he could do.

As the sun slowly dawned, Hiccup’s hopes of seeing his friend again began to fade with the last of the night’s shadows. He walked the streets of the waking city, pondering frantically. He even returned to the high city, where rich, finely-attired people began to fill the paved streets, some on foot, some lounging in horse-pulled carriages. Alas, he was regularly spotted by patrolling guards, who chased him away. Clearly, no raggedy boys were allowed in the high city, especially near the castle.

Hiccup found himself crossing the river to the island with the many temples. He heard that enormous bell again, but, this time, he did not follow its tolling. Instead, he walked to the docks, craving the familiar sound of the sea. All the while, he tried to think on what to do, striving for an idea. _Any_ idea.

_How did they find him?_ He wondered. _And why did they capture him?_ _Mainlanders have no feud with the dragons. And besides, do these people not fear them?_

These southerners had clearly put a lot of effort in capturing Toothless, considering the bloody scene Hiccup had found in the forest. Was it greed that had pushed them? Then why were they keeping it a secret? No. There had to be some other reason. What had he gotten Toothless into? How stupid had he been to hope nobody would find him! It was bound to happen sooner or later.

Hiccup turned around, and was met once again with an upwards view of the castle, perched atop its cliff.

Was Toothless truly there? Hiccup could always give himself up, and find out, but doing so was ultimately going to doom both of them. Maybe they were going to kill him for being a dragon rider. There had to be a proper way to save his friend. He just had to keep looking.

Starved of both ideas and actual food, Hiccup decided he needed to urgently fill his belly, if he wanted to have any hope of thinking straight. After all, if they hadn’t killed Toothless in the forest, then they likely planned to keep him alive. Time was not the issue. _Probably._

He decided to find an alehouse, or, more likely here, a tavern. His stomach growled at the prospect. Thinking it cheaper, Hiccup moved eastwards, crossing the second branch of the river, and thus leaving the island, towards the slums of the city, where he had already spotted a few such places the day before.

The tavern he chose was on a rather muddy and unwelcoming street, which probably meant it was going to cost less. It also meant he was going to fit in better with the crowd, considering his ragged state. Still, Hiccup did catch some distrustful glances from a few kids as he entered the building.

Inside, the place was definitely not lavish. It was dim and cold, but still very large, with lots of wooden tables and stools. Two fireplaces crackled lightly at the sides of the large room, the ceiling of which was sustained by four stone columns. There were a few doors leading towards other chambers, and one set of wooden stairs led to the upper floors. At this time of morning, the patrons were few, and they sat far from one another, in total silence. They were all older men.

Hiccup, not knowing which door led to the kitchens, decided to take a seat and wait, close enough to one of the fireplaces, but still a table away from a grey-coated man, sipping at his soup.

Soon enough, an aproned girl spotted him. Dark bangs covered most of her face. Hiccup found her timid bearing to be quite reassuring. In the only language he knew, he asked for water and for something to eat.

Without raising her eyes at him, the girl nodded and left.

_Does she speak my language?_ Hiccup wondered.

Perhaps he should have not felt so surprised. This was probably the only kind of place southern Vikings could afford, when they sailed here in the warmer seasons, as they apparently did. Maybe Fjalar and Alvin, the two boys Hiccup had met in Nendur’s tavern, had already been to this very place. Maybe even trader Johann. The world felt suddenly smaller at the thought.

Alongside a tin pitcher for water, Hiccup was given a piece of dark bread and a bowl of vegetable soup, which could have still used some boiling time. Hiccup did not have the will to care or complain, and attacked the food, finishing it even faster than the nearby patron. Had he not been so preoccupied with Toothless’ whereabouts, he would have realized how much he had missed the taste of boiled carrots. His mind, however, was elsewhere.

Before leaving the place, Hiccup gave the girl one of his three silver pieces. She looked troubled at the likely too valuable coin, but took it. Then, speaking not a word (was she a mute?), she returned with twelve pieces of copper. Hiccup had expected a bit more change for a whole silver piece, but he did not wish to make a scene.

His hunger somewhat calmed, Hiccup resumed roaming the streets between the slums and the docks, unwilling to go back to the high city without an actual plan, and hoping the movement would keep him warm.

What could he do to get Toothless back? He had always been good at devising contrived solutions. Gobber had often called him smart. Was he really?

_There has to be some way to free him. There must be!_

As he walked, Hiccup found himself bumping against a small cluster of boys, all shorter than him. His mind adrift with worry, he had not seen them approach at all. They had probably been walking in the opposite direction, taking up the whole narrow alley.

Ready to apologize, Hiccup looked up, recognizing one of the kids who had stared at him when he had entered the tavern. The boy looked away with nonchalance, whilst some others feigned bafflement at colliding with him. After seeing their faces, Hiccup could not help suspecting that they had done it on purpose. But why? He did not stop to ask, and made to walk past them.

That’s when he felt a hand underneath his fur pelt, near his belt-knife. Hiccup seized the pommel immediately, and unsheathed the weapon, presenting the blade to the other boys, his heart racing.

_They were trying to take my knife!_

Looking at them again, Hiccup realized there were seven, all rather dirty and unkempt, and all younger than himself, somewhere between the ages of nine and twelve. They all backed away from him with practiced reflexes. The littlest one, an impish-looking, brown-haired boy, cursed under his breath, though he was hiding a smile. He had been the one who had tried to take the knife.

The oldest said something, grinning. Were they going to attack him now?

Both hands on the hilt, trembling with fear and anger, Hiccup raised his small weapon to the taller boy, who, fortunately, lifted his arms in defeat, and started walking away, his falsely apologetic grin never leaving his face. The other kids followed after him.

Once they were gone, Hiccup gasped for air, leaning on the closest wall.

_They were trying to rob me! In the middle of the day! And with other people walking by!_

Such thing was unheard of; or at least it would have been on Berk.

Hiccup put his knife back into its sheath, and hurried away, ever more vigilant. Before too long, however, he stopped on his tracks. His breath caught. Closing his eyes, hoping with all his heart that he was wrong, he touched the side of his belt opposite his knife.

His coin-pouch was gone. It had been snatched by the more experienced hands of another of the little thieves; the knife had not been their sole objective. Cold panic washed anew in Hiccup’s chest like a hard, unwelcome chill. He turned around, preparing for a chase, but the gang of boys was long gone. Besides, what could he do if he caught up with them? He couldn’t fight all seven, even with Gobber’s knife. Sure, he was older, and slightly taller, but he had no actual fighting skill.

That was the moment when true desperation began to set in. Until now, with a huge effort of will, he had managed to keep it at bay. Finally, realizing that he had been robbed, the horrible feeling returned to confront him, suffocating him. Hiccup took deep, nervous breaths.

_Everything will be fine. This is not the end. I just need to calm down._

Despite his inner chant, panic began welling up within him, overwhelming him, paralyzing him, making him sweat despite the cold. He could only wait, hoping it would soon subside. But what if it didn’t? Could people truly get used to utter, constant despair? How? How did people live when they found themselves so lost? How was _he_ going to live without Toothless?

Hiccup felt himself somehow begin to break. He could perceive the gradual process, like a poison taking effect. He could almost measure the void within him, the terrible loneliness spreading in his chest. It was unlike anything he had ever felt, even after becoming an outcast. Now, he was utterly alone, lost in a foreign, unfamiliar land. He felt suddenly small, like a little child, ready to weep for himself.

Had he not grown up at all? Was he not almost an adult? In a year, he was going to be fifteen. Viking boys would sometimes marry at that age, and make children of their own. Would those boys have known how to deal with all of this? Would Snotlout? Or Tuffnut? Or Fishlegs? Was he not supposed to know himself, as a nearly grown man?

Knowing not what else to do, Hiccup started walking again, roaming the streets near the docks all afternoon, trying to salvage his sanity, praying for a way to find Toothless, without getting himself killed or captured. The people walking past him looked at him without interest, without pity, without even the recognition Hiccup had been accustomed to on Berk, even in his most dejected of days.

As the afternoon wore on, Hiccup caught the sound of music; a distant, mellow plucking of strings, coming from behind the back-alley window of a large building. Hoping it would ease his panic, he walked towards it, rose on his toes, and peered through one yellowish glass tile. The place was a richly decorated tavern, of the kind Hiccup was sure that, had his coin-pouch not been stolen, he would have still been unable to afford.

Inside, two players seemed to be rehearsing their tunes. Unlike the performer Hiccup had heard in Nendur’s shabby tavern, these men clearly knew how to use the strange instrument. It was a rounded, hollow wooden box, with a flat side, strings stretching across it from one end, to the edge of a flat, wooden shaft.

Each with their own set, the two men wove sounds together with a talent Hiccup had never beheld, producing a lonesome but cheerful melody. It seemed like the two players were talking to each other, using mere notes, simple ones, yet somehow rich with meaning. For some reason, Hiccup found those notes to be perfectly tailored to his current emotions, as if the gods had planned for him to be there at that very instant, making him feel as if his life was nothing but a myth, a tale bards would only sing in low, wistful tones after the feast, when all were too tired or too drunk to pay attention. Then again, who would sing of a ‘hiccup’? Nobody sang about outcasts or turncoats…

_…or beggars. Is that what I am now?_

Hiccup fell back on his heels. He left the place, the tender music still playing.

The day was quickly ending, but Hiccup was still at a loss for ways to save Toothless. Could he sneak into the castle? Maybe he could try to climb the walls during the night, but he could not begin to fathom how. Maybe it was true; there was nothing to be done.

Drifting nervously to the easternmost side of the city, hoping to find a safe place where to rest and think without encountering more gangs of thieving kids, Hiccup entered a dark, windowless back-alley, barely wide enough for two people. As he looked for a hiding spot, he touched a strangely tepid wall; perhaps there was a hearth at the other side, warming the stone. He slumped with his back against it, and sank to the muddy ground. There was no one there to see him, no traffic, only stacks of abandoned crates. Hiccup tightened the pelt around his shoulders. His stomach growled.

Above him, the sky had turned a deep red, like that of hot coals. It looked as if the whole city was on fire, though it was merely the sunset, filtered through the smoke of hundreds, maybe thousands of hearths, belching greyly into the air. Hiccup stared up at the crimson sliver between the towering buildings. Soon enough, exhausted, he leaned against a crate, and closed his eyes.

* * *

Mornings and evenings blurred as they passed. How many days had it been since he had lost Toothless? Six? Seven? Maybe more. He could not remember exactly. He no longer slept at daily intervals, only when exhaustion took him, which was rather often, considering his perpetual hunger. He would doze off in that same alley, thanking the gods no other beggar had discovered its perks; the place had so far shielded him by most eyes and wind, and its tepid wall, along with his heavy pelt, were probably the only reasons the cold had not yet claimed his life.

Hiccup had occasionally found food in the city; garbage, really, but it had kept him alive. He was beginning to learn which taverns threw away the most edible remains, though he did not always have the courage to join the other hungry scavengers, who regularly appeared in those back-alleys. He was not the only young street urchin in Tinas, apparently. He was also afraid of crossing paths with the gang of kids who had stolen his coin pouch. He had managed to avoid them so far.

Hiccup had also discovered two wells for drinking water, but only after stupidly trying the river-water, hoping it would taste less sour than that of the horse-troughs spread throughout the city. Alas, not only did the river-water not taste better, but it had made him evacuate explosively from both ends for a day. The pain and discomfort had made him temporarily forget how humiliating it was to make his waste in the open, no matter how dark or deserted the back-alleys, which he still had to visit for that very natural purpose, trying his best not to be seen. He would regularly fret about it afterwards, shame burning his face, praying to all the gods nobody had caught sight of him, and that nobody ever would.

That particularly bad day for his bowels came and passed, before Hiccup noticed what people threw into the river’s stream. It seemed obvious now, considering the population, but Hiccup was a Viking, and Vikings did not dare soil the small and precious rivers of their islands with their waste. That’s what the sea was for. Fortunately, the wells Hiccup had found were not affected by the filth, though their water did have a mild taste of seaweed. That was probably why the high city was served by an aqueduct.

Still, even with his meager sources of sustenance, every time Hiccup woke up, it felt almost a surprise. _I’m still alive,_ he would think whenever he opened his eyes, wondering: _How long can a person live with so little food?_ More than he had previously thought, apparently. Hiccup had never been one to eat a lot, but he had never been truly hungry before either.

During all those days, Hiccup had regularly failed at rescuing his friend. In fact, he had twice risked getting captured himself, trying to climb the castle’s walls, before realizing that the mighty structure was impenetrable, at least with his climbing skills.

However, every time he got close to the place, sneaking past the patrolling guards, he regularly felt something. He could never be sure, but, somehow, he could feel Toothless close by, as if alive. His inner hearing seemed to vibrate alongside his other senses whenever he found himself in the high city. Yet, he could hear nothing; likely, it was a mere impression, spurred by the fear of being spotted and chased by the city watch, as he already had been a few times. Street urchins were not welcome in the high city, and even more so near the castle.

Fighting for wakefulness, Hiccup would regularly try to come up with other ways to save his friend. He would also try to stretch his inner ear, even from afar, struggling to connect his mind to the dragon’s, ignoring the distance, and hoping to penetrate the walls that likely separated them, although he had never managed it by himself before, even face to face. He nonetheless reached out, harder and harder, forcing his brain in ways he was not sure had any effect, but which did grant him a few nosebleeds.

After the first few days passed, however, he could no longer ignore the painful void in his stomach. It actually hurt, clouding his mind, pushing back his less immediate worries. Ultimately, the hunger took over his thoughts.

Mildly aware of the shame he felt for shifting priorities, Hiccup considered a few ways to fight starvation. At first, he had let a strange instinct do the work or him. Or, rather, it was an animal reflex, which the hunger had woken, to keep him alive, to make him scavenge for food amongst the garbage. Hiccup had allowed it to take over him a few times, though pride would regularly fight it back. Regardless, he knew he could not rely on scraps and leftovers for long.

The first conscious idea Hiccup had considered to solve this problem was that of selling his knife, but it was the only weapon he had, the only way to fend off further thefts, and he knew it was not going to be a permanent solution.

The second plan was that of hunting in the forest west of the city. Alas, he no longer had his bow, and, without the Night Fury’s help, it was not going to be an easy task. He could try making rabbit-traps and snares, but he feared scouts might still be searching the area. Besides, how was he going to cook his catch? He had never learnt how to light a fire without flint and steel, or, even better, a dragon.

The last solution Hiccup had considered (and was still considering) was that of asking for help, either to the small Viking temple, or to Dàlaras, the old bookbinder, who had even offered him an apprenticeship in his shop. Both ideas did not appeal to him, however. In fact, they frightened him.

His repulsion was not exactly rational. There was just something about accepting the help of other people, of other _humans_ , that, after all he had done, after everything humans had done to _him_ , seemed intolerable.

Perhaps it was his pride again. In his current condition, its lingering presence was a constant source of wonder, yet Hiccup seemed to hold on to it, like a man clutching a festering limb.

Still, there was something beyond pride, some other reason, a much more terrifying one. Asking others for help would have been an acknowledgment of something horrible; it meant finally admitting that Toothless could never be rescued, or worse, that he was dead.

While he was partly aware of the flaw in this way of thinking, Hiccup felt that going to other people for help with his own condition, for his own hunger, would somehow entail the ultimate abandonment of his one and only friend. He could already imagine himself (in fact, one night, he had actually dreamed of himself) years into the future, working as apprentice to the bookbinder, without ever taking to the skies again, without ever resting in Toothless’ warm, scaly embrace, yet eating hot food among the books, sleeping in a dry bed, washing every week.

The image had given him a guilty sense of comfort, and he had releveled in it a few times, hoping it would ease the pain in his belly, knowing it was still a possibility. He could always go to the bookbinder’s shop, and ask. Any day was good. That’s why he hadn’t done it already. (Or so he told himself.)

The truth was that, regardless of the hunger and the cold he felt, he refused to accept a life without Toothless. _We are both going to live, or die together,_ Hiccup had vowed as a captive in Berk’s prison, nearly nine months before, and now, in one of his more lucid moments, he renewed that vow.

Maybe it was time. People died, after all; it was normal. He was going to die too one day. Maybe that day was tomorrow. Maybe it was this very evening. Why fret over it? At least he had lived. At least he had tried; he had gotten up that night in the forest. The gods would understand.

Besides, what if Toothless was dead already? It was quite possible. Hiccup revisited the thought. Shouldn’t his own death feel trivial before that notion? The answer seemed obvious. But, then, why did the prospect of dying himself feel so unappealing? Without Toothless, what else was there? Why did he still cling to life, even at the thought of Toothless being dead?

Hiccup realized there was something, something _besides_ Toothless, which was keeping him from peacefully accepting his own demise. It came almost as a shock. He tried to look for the reason within himself. If he wanted a death without additional regrets, he had to let go of it; nothing else could matter before Toothless.

 Hiccup thought back on his life, searching his memories. What had he left behind? Where was this unease coming from? He recalled the bookbinder. _No._ The sailors on Nendur. _Nothing._ His hut in the Archipelago, perhaps? No, he had left nothing there; it had been destroyed, his dragon-friends were dead.

His mind drifted north, flying over blue seas, white clouds, green islands, faster than any Night Fury, remembering each of the places he had left behind, those without a name, and those inhabited by Vikings, dismissing each of them.

Finally, he was back on Berk, and, there, he found it, the source of his unease. How long had it been since he had willingly thought of home? He could not remember. He had let those memories gather dust in some dark corner of his mind, but he had never truly thrown them out. He had to do it now.

As if with a hot knife, Hiccup reached out within his mind, ready to cut that part of his life away. A necessary amputation.

Just then, an unwelcome question surged into his mind. Was his father going mourn at news of his death? Would Stoick the Vast feel grief at learning _how_ his only son had perished?

Hiccup knew the answer to that question, and though he did not dare repeat it in his mind, it did not ease his feelings. In fact, it only sharpened his regret, the very thing he was trying to dispel.

His and his father’s world-views would forever be irreconcilable, and yet, Hiccup realized he was feeling sorry for the man, and for Gobber as well. They had both taken care of him, in their own way. They would have never wanted this for him. What a source of disappointment he had been, and still was to those two men, and to the whole of Berk, even from so far away.

Hiccup curled into a ball against the tepid wall of the alley, and silently wept for them. He did not want to let go, neither of Toothless, nor of his memories. He did not want to die of cold and hunger. He did not want to disappoint anyone more than he already had.

He wiped tears on the sleeves of his outermost tunic, and then stared at the stains. He looked at his clothes underneath the heavy pelt, the clothes his father had given him; so much larger they had seemed then, rotten now, ready to fall apart, just like he was.

Hiccup clutched those dirty rags to himself, feeling his journal still tucked underneath, touching his empty belly. He clung to them with white-knuckled fervor, groaning to keep the tears in. He recalled his old room, the familiar smell of it, his house, its crackling hearth, his father’s heavy, wooden armchair. Stoick had often been absent, but a word was always shared during the day, and, at night, at least there was the snoring, carrying from downstairs. Hiccup had never liked the noise, but, after his mother’s death, it had begun to make his sleep easier. It meant his father had not yet been killed in a raid. It meant he still had a family.

Compared to his current condition, things were quite alright back then, Hiccup thought. Without the constant suspicion that Toothless was alive, he might have prayed the gods to take him back there, back in time. He would be fine as the village-hiccup again. With easy food, and a hearth, and work as a blacksmith, he would even smile at the occasional jabs and sneers from the other kids, and gladly deal with his father’s disappointed looks. Such things seemed all so trivial now.

_No…_

“He’s still alive,” Hiccup whispered to himself, realizing his throat was sore, but disregarding the threat of illness. His health didn’t matter much.

He rose to his feet, startling a raven which had perched itself upon a nearby crate. The bird was perfectly black, its plumage pristine and glistening. It glared at him, and cawed cautiously. Hiccup looked at it. He had not seen many ravens since crossing to the mainland, only a few smaller crows, but mostly pigeons. He reached out to caress its black feathers.

Promptly, the raven bit his finger, and Hiccup withdrew the hand, sucking his teeth in both pain and surprise. He had never been bitten by a raven before, something very few Vikings could claim. The black birds had always seemed to like him. Not anymore.

“I guess I deserved that,” he said.

The raven made a clucking noise in response. It sounded like disapproval.

“Oh, I don’t know. I wasn’t always like this, was I?”

The raven cocked its head, taking a cautious step forward, perhaps hoping for some food.

“Yeah…” Hiccup agreed, swallowing hard against the soreness in his throat. “This has gone on for long enough.” He took a deep breath, coughed, and straightened his shoulders, mustering what little strength he had left.

The raven cawed loudly, and took off, its wings blowing air in Hiccup’s face.

Hiccup watched it soar between the high rooftops, into this winter’s morning sky. It was going to rain soon.

_If I’m going to die, it won’t be as a coward._

Heart drumming in his chest, Hiccup left the dark alley, and trudged towards the high city for one last time, his eyes firm with a new, final purpose.

_If I’m going to die soon, let it be today._

_If I’m going to die today, let it be as a Viking._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, in part, a homage to one of my favorite arcs of one of my favorite fantasy books ever. I'll let you guess which book it is. (It's been rather popular of late.)
> 
> By the way, if it's any consolation, just like in that book, things do brighten up soon. A protagonist, however, can never truly become a hero, unless he's seen rock-bottom first. According to classical tradition, they should literally visit hell, but the slums of Tinas low will have to do. (For now...)


	29. Roars and Whispers

**_Previously, on Fly to Live:_ **

_With Toothless kidnapped, and with his coin-pouch stolen as well, Hiccup loses count of the days he spends as a street urchin in the slums of Tinas low, trying to come up with a way to get his friend back, and regularly failing. Alone, hungry, and desperate, but still burning with a strange, self-destructive pride which keeps him from begging for anyone’s help, Hiccup finally decides that if he is to die, it won’t be of starvation. If he is to die, then at least he can make his death a Viking’s death._

_Thus, one overcast morning, Hiccup gets to his feet, and trudges to the high city for one last time, with one final purpose in mind._

* * *

**(Commander Dario Langham)**

 

Dario tapped his fingers on the window sill. His eyes were squinted against the midday sun, staring intently in the distance, west of the city, where the red forest began. He had climbed up to his chambers in the castle’s tower for a better view, his heart beating with nervous anticipation. Still, even from this height, he could see nothing unusual.

Instead, he could easily see his own face mirrored in the large window glass. It was a single pane for the whole window. Quite the extravagance. After all, these were the chambers of the city’s former king. They were his now, though he had not demanded them. Eremar, the current king of Erfar, had assigned them to him, after promoting him to commander and tasking him with safeguarding the northern provinces. The appointed Earl of the Tinasi province hardly ever stayed in Tinas, so it was expected of Dario to take residence in the tallest tower himself, as the highest military authority currently in the city.

This did not mean Dario liked these chambers. Reports took too long to get up here, and the food would always arrive cold. He preferred spending most of the time in the castle’s lower halls, closer to the soldiers. In fact, he would have rather stayed in the barracks, but his station did not allow him to mingle amongst the lower ranks too often.

Nonetheless, the old tower (the only one that had completely survived the annexation of Tinas into Erfar three generations past) did provide a good view of the surrounding lands. It was still not enough to see how his orders were currently being carried out. The forest was too far, too dense, too curved with hills. Unable to see much else whilst waiting, Dario studied his own reflection in the window.

He could see his own worry on his hardened face. Had his subordinates seen it too? He needed to look confident in moments like this. He sighed and pulled back his brown hair from his forehead. He shaved his face daily, but he always kept his wavy hair at shoulder length. It was an effective way to shield his neck from the cold, but also a habit from his soldiering days, as longer hair made helms and helmets feel more comfortable.

Dario squinted again, and saw wrinkles form around his eyes. He looked older than his thirty-four years, he knew, but he did have the experience and skills to back up his seasoned looks. He had seen more battles than most, despite his specialty currently laying in war-strategies and training methods.

In fact, taught to fight all his youth by elite warriors, Dario was also a learned man, tutored by competent truths-masters, which had made him the perfect choice for commander of the king’s northern army, although, at first, it had also made it harder for him to gain the respect he needed from his new, northern subordinates. Soldiers shared little love for scholars of any kind, whether they could hold a sword or not.

That might have been the other reason why Dario kept his hair so long, against the current fashion, which called for very short-cut hair in men, sometimes even shaved at the sides, perhaps as an attempt to resemble some of the Tarbeni Windblades, who were known for shaving parts of their heads, if not all of them. Instead, Dario hoped his scruffier, irreverent looks helped the soldiers see he cared little for fashions, traditions, or reputation. He had never concealed his disapproval for such things as appearances, fame, or even frivolous courtly matters, and especially the politicking that came with them. That’s why he had always steered clear from those topics during the city council. This had probably made him silently unpopular among the common people, though he did not particularly care.

Dario did however value the trust of his men, so he always dressed as a soldier, even though his padded gambeson and partial plate and mail were not the best choice for the long hours of issuing orders and sitting around map-covered desks. They were still more comfortable than full-plate armor, of course, and appropriate enough for the times he was required to ride somewhere. Those occasions, sadly, were only too rare. He could hardly recall the last time he had taken Ruar out of the stables.

Dario sighed, longing for his horse. Did he actually hate his job? He was not sure. On some days, he could see how indispensable he was. There were few men of his expertise in these northern provinces. Tinas needed men like him to defend itself from the looming Kadali threat. Yet, on most mornings, the prospect of going over rations, siege scenarios, barge schedules, supply routes, and empty scout reports, was, at the very least, unexciting.

Today, however, either for good or ill, was not such a boring day. Not by a long shot. A dragon had been spotted. An actual dragon, of those that were said to fly the northernmost skies of the world. It was reportedly sleeping in the red forest, probably injured. Most shockingly, it was wearing a saddle; at least that’s what the scout had claimed. The novelty of the notion would have made this very exciting news, were it not for the possible implications.

If Kadal’s high inquisitor had somehow managed to arm himself with dragon-riding scouts, messengers, or, even worse, warriors, then, as Dario himself had put it to the scout reporting the discovery:

_“Not just this city, but the whole kingdom is doomed to fall. And the Kadali don’t take us ‘pagans’ as prisoners, so we either start praying to the ploughing ‘one true god’ of the west, or we are dead men already.”_

It did not help that the Kadali’s fervent doctrine claimed their warrior prophet would one day descend from the heavens on a ‘winged horse,’ which was likely another word for dragon. Dario had to capture that sleeping beast at all costs, find its rider, and question him with all means necessary. He had to find out how many more the inquisitor had, where, and what they could do. Such opportunity was not going to arise again. Questions like: ‘How did the Kadali cross the Wicked Waters to get to those dragon-infested islands?’ or ‘How did they seize control of the legendarily untamable beasts?’ would all come later.

Most importantly, he had to keep this a secret from the people. If news of dragon riders in the enemy’s ranks were to suddenly spread, Dario was sure half of his own seasoned men were going to desert, not to mention the new recruits or the levied men from the surrounding cities and holds. People would start mass-converting to the One’s religion out of fear, and, soon enough, the Kadali inquisition would be greeted in the capital’s throne room with groveling bows.

Allowing a small church of the ‘One’ in Tinas had already been an absurd concession to the few domesticated believers of that religion, who currently lingered in Erfar. They were probably no threat as they were, and Tinas, being so far from the capital, did pride itself in its multicultural and lax nature, but the kingdom could not allow itself to be wholly overtaken by those monotheists, and especially by the inquisitor who had made perfect puppets of them.

Hence, with the utmost urgency, Dario had given the order to Loben, captain of his special forces. A troop of twenty, highly trained men had been immediately dispatched to bind the beast, hide it until nightfall, then have it stealthily carted to the castle’s dungeons under the cover of darkness. Among the soldiers, there was also one half-Viking, who claimed having experienced a few close encounters with the winged beasts during his youth, when he still lived with his Viking mother in the southern Archipelago.

At first, Dario had considered sending every man with any Viking blood he had at his disposal to capture the dragon, but that would have defeated the purpose of secrecy. Besides, Dario did not possess actual dragon-fighters; those people lived so far north, that stories about them were often met with skepticism.

Currently, there was little else Dario could do other than wait for reports. He could not go himself, much as he wanted to. The commander could not leave the city without raising questions.

Dario tapped his fingers on the window sill again. He huffed deeply. His heart was drumming in his gut. Had he given the right orders? Had the dragon flown away? Had he sent men to their deaths? The stories claimed it took an average of three or four trained Vikings to kill a dragon once grounded. The Erfari might have lacked the northerners’ mythical brawn and experience, but twenty of Loben’s best men had to be more than enough to capture a single dragon, especially if injured.

There was a sound of rushing steps. Then the door burst open without a knock.

Dario did not mind, and immediately barked: “Report!”

“We caught it!” The young man exclaimed, sweat beading on his forehead. He had clearly rushed his way back to the city and up the tower’s stairs. He was one of the four scouts in the troop, likely the greenest. “We have secured the beast,” he added, hissing the words, remembering the demand for secrecy; not that there was anyone else in the tower to hear them.

“Where is it now?”

“In the old Marosi barn, like you commanded. The wagon is currently being modified to load the beast.” The scout took a few breaths. “Nobody saw us.”

“Good,” Dario breathed out with some relief, “that’s good. Found the rider?”

The scout shook his head, wheezing.

“Any dead?”

The young man hesitated, his breath nearly stopping. Had it been too much to hope?

“Answer the question, soldier.”

“Four… dead.”

“ _F- Four!?”_ Dario shouted. “Four _dead?!_ ”

The scout nodded, then added: “A few others sport injuries, captain Loben too, nothing fatal, except perhaps for Nakis, he has burns that will be hard to explain, commander. Assuming he survives them.”

Dario ran a hand through his hair, groaning. “Burns alone are easier to explain than four sudden dead men with _both_ burns and teeth marks on them. _Shit!_ Did any of them have families in Tinas?”

“Can’t say for sure, commander. Private men they were.”

“ _Shit…_ ” Dario pinched the bridge of his nose, and paused to think. “You’ll conceal their bodies for now. We can’t let anyone else know about this. Let darkness fall deep before you enter the city. I’ll make sure the watch is less alert for the night. You make sure the beast makes no sound as you carry it here.”

The young scout chuckled nervously, unease plain on his face. “Truly, its roar...” he shivered, “it can be rather… _noticeable_. The dragon, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.” He trailed off, then collected himself. “But we’ve already muzzled it near to strangling. It melted one of the chains with its flame, but we did it. Can’t move an inch no more.”

“Good. Go back now. Return with reports if anything, _anything,_ happens; so much as a curious child asks about what you are doing, I’ll want to know. Understood?”

“Yes, commander,” the youth finally said, and bowed.

Dario nodded, and allowed him to leave, before he too descended the tower. He needed to talk to the high constable with some urgency.

* * *

It was like death made flesh. Sleeker than a Tarbeni steel sword, more sinuous than a viper, more frightening than a pack of wolves, stronger than any bear, and deadlier than all those things put together, even without considering it could breathe fire. And, of course, it could also fly.

At first, when they had lifted the huge canvas from the cart, Dario had been surprised to find it smaller than he had imagined. He had only needed a second glance, however, to understand how powerful the black beast truly was.

And yet, there was a brown leather saddle on its back, now half shredded from the fight, but very much manmade. Despite the darkness, Dario could see it underneath the overabundance of straps and chains wrapped around the dragon, just as he could see the strange prosthetic on its tail, which was also torn to bits, its iron rods bent.

Was the prosthetic and mutilation of the tailfin part of the taming process? Dario wondered. What had the Kadali discovered? And how? Dragons never flew south of the Wicked Waters. Had something changed? Or could this be the only dragon rider the Kadali had? If so, then why risk sending him as a scout? It made no sense. They knew the red forest was constantly patrolled. No enemy scout could ever be that sloppy.

What was this all about? Who was the man riding the beast? How dangerous would such a man be? Likely more than any of the Windblades. Perhaps stronger than any Viking. Not very smart, though. Still, if the Kadali had more such men, then…

 _We are going to lose this war,_ Dario thought grimly to himself. _We are going to lose all wars._

They had to capture that man at all costs. It had been an absurd stroke of luck to find the dragon sleeping on its own. They had to seize this chance, find that rider, and question him. Would such a man bend to torture? Where could he be hiding? Had he realized his dragon had been taken? Was he still alive?

Dario considered his next commands. He was going to have the whole forest, city, and surrounding lands combed for suspicious figures. He should have given the order already, but he had to be careful. He needed to avoid raising questions. They had to keep the situation utterly secret.

In fact, hard as it had been, Dario had insisted upon carting the dragon through the narrow corridors of the lowermost dungeons, to finally cram it in the deepest cell they had, hoping to keep it as hidden as possible. No one was to enter the dungeons unless Dario himself instructed them. Even the wine cellars were off limits, lest the sound of the beast thrashing its chains raised suspicion. And, of course, those who knew already were to remain tight-lipped about the whole thing.

Suddenly, the dragon opened its eyes. Flickering torchlight made them shine green in the darkness, except for the slitted pupils, which narrowed as they fell upon Dario’s figure across the iron bars. Alone, Dario felt a powerful urge to take several steps back. With an effort, he held his ground. If there were Vikings who regularly fought such foes without flinching, then so could he not soil himself at the sight of a caged one.

The dragon produced a low growl, which was all it could do, muzzled as it was. It then puffed dark smoke through its nostrils, and the sight made Dario shiver.

_So, it’s true; they can breathe fire._

The dragon glared sharply at him, but Dario did not look away. He felt strangely fascinated. To think something so deadly could be so beautiful. At least, _this_ dragon was. Dario had seen imported dragon skulls from the Archipelago, even skeletons, and none had suggested a figure as elegant as that of the beast before him. Frightening, yes, but not like this. Was this dragon somehow special? How had the Kadali gotten their hands on such a weapon?

_So many questions._

“Hello beastie,” Dario said.

The dragon narrowed its eyes, then looked around, searching, and the way its gaze moved suggested an intelligence that made Dario’s breath catch. He did take a step back then. Were dragons smarter than horses? How smart were they?

Dario tried to recall some Kadali, and asked: “Mùssola thàhta?”

_‘Where is your master?’_

The dragon showed no recognition. The rumors suggesting they were mindless beasts were probably accurate. Still, those eyes… He was going to see those eyes again, in his next nightmare; Dario was sure of it.

He felt nervous laughter bubble in his gut, accompanied by a wave of nausea. His job had suddenly gotten much harder, perhaps impossible. What would the king say? How would his men react? What could he do not to smother their courage before this new foe?

Regardless, he had orders to give. Dario took a deep breath.

_One step at a time. And may Tarsim keep Murasil busy for a while longer._

* * *

“Damn you, Loben, it’s been a fucking week!” Dario growled, shaking his head and gazing into the flames, one hand on his hip, the other leaning on the frame of the walled fireplace. “I’ve practically handed you the city watch, and told the captains to keep their eyes peeled. Everyone knows something’s brewing now, and they keep asking, asking, asking. I was taught to dodge swords, not questions. I’m no sweet talker like Fillatis. They think I’m going mad! The warden wants to know why he can no longer access his own castle’s cellars. And the constable… oh, _the_ _constable_. Can’t take a shit without him knocking at the privy’s door. He thinks I’m plotting to seize full control of the city watch, which, truth be told, I almost have, to help _your_ search. Now give me something, a rumor, a trail, _anything._ ”

He sighed and fully turned to Loben. He was receiving the captain’s fruitless report in one of the lower meeting halls of the castle. The doors of the room were closed, guarded by trusted men. Rumor of the dragon had not yet spread, but Dario was close to giving up all secrecy, the impatience gnawing at him. He needed that rider found and questioned immediately.

Loben stood in the middle of the room, perfectly centered with the huge, red woven carpet. His posture was straight, his hands confidently behind his back, though one was gloveless and bandaged. “We’ve found nothing, commander,” he replied. “My men are all tirelessly scouring the forest for tracks, and the city watch is on the lookout. There’s not yet been a trace. And if the rider is dead, we’ve not yet found the body.”

Dario gritted his teeth. “A damn saddled dragon drops from the sky, and that’s _it?_ ” He groaned and went back to sit at the huge rectangular table, which could accommodate up to a dozen people. The fireplace cracked. “How many know of the dragon already? Twenty?”

“Nineteen men for certain. Fifteen of mine survived the ambush. Four more you’ve placed in the dungeon, to feed and keep an eye on the beast. Others might be suspecting.”

“What are the odds they haven’t started whispering about this to friends and family?” Dario murmured, mostly to himself.

“I’d trust my men with my life,” Loben said. “Can’t speak for the others.”

Dario shook his head absently. “No. I doesn’t matter, this can’t go on any longer.” He laid his hand on the table and tapped his fingers. “I’ll have to send word to the king. He put me here to make decisions myself, but I can’t let this out without his approval, and I can’t risk him learning of this from rumors. He’s not going to like this; will probably say I should have told him immediately.”

“Haven’t you sent a letter already?” Loben asked, then quickly added: “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Dario cast a level look at the man. “I _do_ mind; not so much for your veiled insubordination, but for the stupidity of the question. What information would you have put in that letter? To involve the king, we need more than questions. I had hoped to have some answers by now, but it seems we’re left with no choice. And, as I cannot trust just any rider with such a message, and even worse, a pigeon relay, I guess you’ll be going to the king personally, with all haste.”

“ _Me?_ To _Nym?!_ ” Loben did not seem pleased with the prospect of travelling to the capital, especially in a hurry. It usually took about twenty days to make the distance at a normal pace, changing plenty of horses along the king’s road. Doing it in less required perfect weather, and fresh, strong mounts at every possible horse post. Doing it in half the time was possible, but it entailed galloping a few good horses to death along the road, not to mention the saddle sores.

“Shouldn’t we tell the Earl first?” Loben tried.

“I answer only to the king,” Dario retorted gravely. “Besides, I wouldn’t trust that profligate dimwit of an Earl with my chamber pot. Do you even know where he is? Even his servants can’t keep track of where he’ll be throwing the next ball or feast. It’s quite a blessing he dislikes the smell of the city if you ask me. No, you’ll be going to the king himself. And pray I have this whole thing sorted out before your return. I want you back in three weeks.”

Loben’s eyes bulged at the demand, but he did not have time to complain, as someone knocked at the door.

“Enter,” Dario shouted.

One of the guards stepped in.

“Apologies, commander. Another man of the city watch. Said he has word from the high constable. Should I let him through? He is quite insistent.”

Dario rolled his eyes, then rubbed them, sighing once more. “Fine, let’s be done with it.”

The door closed, then reopened almost immediately as a tall, lanky man entered, full plate of armor gleaming with small raindrops. He removed his helm, gave a small bow and said: “lord commander.” He then noticed captain Loben and added: “captain Parsin.”

“What news from the constabulary?” Dario asked, forcing a smile. “How is our lord Forinar today?”

“The lord high constable wishes to review his invitation for a meeting.”

Dario raised an eyebrow. “I suspect you mean _‘renew’_ his invitation?”

The armored man tensed, looked up, and gave a nod. “Yes, commander.”

Dario turned to Loben, offered him a long, suffering glare, and said: “I wish _I_ was the one going for a long ride.” He then looked back at the constable’s man. “So, does this mean the lord constable has any news for me regarding our search?”

The man seemed taken aback for a moment, then replied politely: “I don’t presume to know the lord constable’s business.”

“This is _your_ business as well. Have you got anything to report yourself? Seen anything suspicious?”

“Afraid not, commander. We are all looking for the Kadali spy, but none seem to have turned up yet.”

“Kadali... _spy?_ ” Dario asked, shifting his eyes back to Loben. Was that what captain Loben had told the city watch? It was probably a good guess, and something most soldiers would have bought without question, but it was still rather specific.

“Is that not what we are looking for?” The armored man asked.

Dario hummed uncertainly. “Might be. Though any suspicious movements are to be reported.”

“Oh…” the man hesitated a while, then finally said: “well, in that case… But, no, it’s nothing of import.”

Dario looked back at the man with sudden expectation. “Speak freely, soldier.”

The constable’s man rearranged his helm under his arm. “Well… it’s not really worth the commander’s time. Not a threat in any way. Not really that strange even. Just happened to see him once this morning. Was talking to the men at noon and they said he keeps coming back, but, well…”

“Out with it,” Dario barked. “I don’t have all day.”

“It’s just a kid. A boy. A little pickpocket from the slums, most likely, gone a bit silly in the head. Keeps trying to come hillside, no matter how often he’s beaten and kicked away. It started at daybreak I think. They said he’s been back twice since noon, all bloody and bruised. Seems not to care. Does not even try to hide. One of the patrols said the boy just rushed straight to him, yelling. The man dragged him downhill. He no longer had the heart to beat him, but the boy keeps coming back, beaten or not. The men aren’t sure what to do. It’s like he wants to get himself killed.”

Dario frowned. “Now why would a boy try to get himself killed by the watch? What does he want in the high city? Has anyone asked him?”

“That’s the thing, commander, none of the patrols speaks Viking, so we can’t really tell.”

 _“Viking?”_ Dario asked, his brow furrowing as the pieces of the puzzle began falling into place.

“That’s what the men think, on account of the boy constantly yelling _‘dreki’_. Is that not the Viking word for ‘dragon’?”

Dario stood up so fast, his chair fell back. He glared immediately at Loben, whose face flushed a fierce, guilty red. At least the man had the decency to keep his mouth shut. Had an excuse for his negligence escaped the captain’s lips, Dario would have thrown a chair at him.

It was the armored man, however, who actually took a step back and gulped, as if preparing to receive an unexpected, but violent reprimand from his superiors. None came. The shouts were stuck in Dario’s throat.

Dario breathed and tried to calm himself. Finally, biting each word, he said to Loben: “I want that boy seized and brought to the dungeons _immediately._ ” His hands were trembling with rage, or relief, or both.

Captain Loben did not even have the chance to acknowledge the order, before Dario bellowed:

“Now!”

* * *

The walls of the dungeon’s wide corridors had been lined with fresh torches, which made the place feel slightly warmer than the castle’s lower halls. While it wasn’t cold enough to snow, the drizzling rain outside had brought a rather biting chill with it. It was midwinter after all.

Dario stepped down some stairs, descending deeper into the castle’s guts. He went through a barred gate, then another, then turned left, towards a branch of the dungeons that stood in the opposite direction of where the dragon was currently kept.

Soon enough, he reached the questioning hall. It was a large vaulted chamber with two small doors along one wall, and two wide opposing entrances, one without a gate, and one with a long antechamber, its barred gate currently ajar. Dario entered from the latter. He walked the antechamber silently, but stopped just before the corner. He did not step fully inside.

Being so open, the place was not very private, but the other questioning chambers behind the smaller doors were not big enough to house all the torture contraptions that the former king of the city had enjoyed operating on his subjects, if the histories were to be believed.

Discreetly, Dario took a quick peek around the corner, and was pleased to see that Loben and his men had done their job properly this time.

The boy had already been stripped naked, his body thoroughly searched, then chained to the vertical, cross-shaped stretcher, a rather odd device that spread the limbs in all directions, like a normal cross, but which also allowed for those limbs to be pulled individually with four gears, all while standing upright. It was one of the few torture contraptions that was still functional.

Two of Loben’s men were currently standing by. One was sitting on a regular stretcher, the other leaning on another, unspecified device. They were waiting, observing their new prisoner, and chatting idly. Neither of them saw or heard Dario, as both had their backs to him.

He hesitated. Should he enter? Or should he stay hidden? Should he have remained upstairs? The practice of torture was somewhat frowned upon in Erfar, and it was usually delegated to officers far down the chain of command. Kings, commanders, or even captains were not supposed to directly approve or take part in such forms of interrogation, and were expected to feign ignorance whenever they were being carried out.

This was a matter of exceptional gravity, however. The possible threat could not be taken lightly.

Dario thought on this as he waited for the interrogator to arrive. He was also waiting for Loben to bring an interpreter. Dario did speak a bit of Norse himself, but not enough. If the boy was some lying undercover Kadali, the interpreter was going to be unnecessary, but if the boy truly was a Viking, there were questions he still had to answer.

As Dario waited, he could not help but eavesdrop on the conversation between the two soldiers.

"… captain thinks he is,” one man was saying, “so…”

“Nah,” the second man cut in, his voice rough and hoarse. “This is a huge waste of time. What Kadali? What dragon rider? He’s not even Viking if you ask me."

"But that's what they’re saying,” the first man insisted. He was the younger of the two, perhaps in his early twenties. “Besides, he does speak Viking, doesn’t he?"

"Any lad can learn the language. But real Vikings are much bigger, or at least tougher. Not this one. Under all that muck, he's got skin like some fancy castle lady. Look at ‘im. He's almost cute. He'd make a perfectly good wench."

The younger one snorted, chuckling. “Not with _that_ thing between his legs."

“Only man's thing about ‘im,” the second man agreed. “He’s _still_ prettier than both my daughters. And an arse is still an arse. Bet he’d make the priciest little boy-whore in some desert city pleasurehouse.”

The first soldier let out an uncertain humm. “Uhh, Bren? Should I be worried? When was the last time you've been with a woman?"

"Heh!” Brennard exclaimed dejectedly. “Can't say. Wife may be dead, but two ugly daughters don’t leave a man with much coin to spend.” He paused, and then asked: “What in Tarsim’s name do you think he's mutterin’ now?"

The two guards stopped their banter. They seemed to be listening. Dario did the same. He could hear the boy mumbling in Norse. He could not catch each word, but he did hear one being repeated many times:

“Tǫnnlauss…”

Dario did not recognize it.

Was this all an act?

Making sure not to be seen by the two guards, Dario peeked around the corner again for a longer look.

The prisoner’s head was lolling forward, dazed, straight auburn hair curtaining his eyes and face. From that position, only his body was visible, held up to the cross by his chained wrists, like a broken string puppet. Though he should have been expecting it, Dario frowned, taken aback by the sight.

The boy was distinctly emaciated, and disturbingly young. His pale, lightly freckled skin was battered, bruised, and dirty all over, but, as the two soldiers’ conversation had suggested, still too smooth for a man. Perhaps he was just slow of growth, blessed to avoid the uglier facets of awkward adolescence. His cracking voice did seem to suffer from it though, which would have been the only reliable sign of the boy’s true age, if not for the wispy auburn fuzz that had begun to crown his manhood.

 _This lad has barely seen thirteen winters,_ Dario thought.

Could this young, gaunt boy truly be the dragon rider? Could he be a Kadali scout? Was he really an enemy of the kingdom? The notion felt suddenly contrived, but he had to explore all options. Boys his age were usually still training, but they could be sent to the battlefield if necessary.

Dario realized he was falling into an old habit of his, a remnant of his time in Nym, long before his promotion to commander, when it was part of his job to choose which youths were fit for war. He had taught hundreds of lads how to fight in those years, years he now remembered with a new, bittersweet fondness. That was probably why, despite the distance, Dario instinctively began assessing the young prisoner’s build, his naked muscles, his scars, his potential.

The boy’s upper body did not have the bulk for heavy weapons, but his shoulders were straight, and his proportions showed promise, assuming he was properly tutored, which had not been case. To Dario’s experienced eyes, it was clear that the boy had not received a proper form of training, if any.

His lower body, however, told a different story. His thighs, while not bulging, were still hard with muscle, like those of a practiced cavalryman. This was all the more reason to believe he was indeed the dragon rider. Riding those beasts probably required as much, if not more leg work than riding a horse.

_Yes, with proper training, this kid could become a fine enough warrior…_

_…for me to send to his death._

Dario closed his eyes, hiding again behind the corner of the wall, sighing.

That was why he could no longer teach. Sure, he was a busy man, but he could have found the time. The problem was that he could not properly do his job as commander, if he got too close to his men. He was not the kind of man who could sleep off the deaths of his own trainees. Nor, in fact, was he the kind of man who enjoyed torturing information out of starved young lads.

 _So_ , _I guess I do hate this job._

Dario thumped the back of his head against the wall. He then took a deep breath, and stepped fully into the room.

* * *

Dario spent the rest of the afternoon in his chambers, mulling over his findings.

Erland (for that was the dragon rider’s name) truly was a Viking. It had become quickly obvious that the boy spoke no word of Kadali or Erfari, as he had shown no recognition of the threats he’d been made in those languages. After that, the rest of his story had been easy to confirm, particularly thanks to the interpreter, who, in a most surprising twist, had actually met the boy a week prior, in his bookbinding shop.

Apparently, Erland was a fourteen-year-old Viking from an island called Balheim. He was a blacksmith’s apprentice who, having somehow befriended an injured dragon, had been forced to leave the archipelago. That explained why he had found his way to the bookbinding shop, asking for a map. No enemy spy or scout could have ever been so clumsy and unprepared. And if all that was not enough to corroborate his story, they had found a journal on the boy, full of scribbles and sketches, most of which were of the dragon’s prosthetic tail.

This whole situation was just an extraordinary, mind-boggling coincidence. But it was better this way.

 _Much, much better,_ Dario thought with a deep sigh of relief.

Safe in the knowledge that this was no Kadali threat, he decided to leave the judgement regarding the boy’s and the dragon’s fate to the king, since there was no longer any hurry. He certainly saw no reason to let the boy go, free to roam the kingdom’s skies on the back of that terrifying weapon. They were both going to remain his prisoners for quite a while.

Still, there was no stopping the rumors; leaks were unavoidable now, and they were soon going to ripple through the kingdom like wildfire. Too many people knew already, soldiers had died over this, and it was generally impossible to keep such secrets for long. Dario had to make sure it would all come out in a controlled way, and, to do that, he had to summon the city council.

After descending to the castle’s great hall, Dario gestured for one of his officers, and told him to call for an urgent council meeting. As he watched the man run towards the gate, he saw another man enter, alone.

He was of average build, with black hair, and a neatly trimmed beard. He was also impeccably dressed; not in an ostentatious way, but his clothes were clearly of the finest cut. The man wore a dark blue, knee-long coat, silver thread embroidered subtly at the edges, and a small amount of short grey fur lining the rim of the neck. His black leather boots made an elegantly pitched clopping noise on the stone floor as he approached.

Dario felt his jaw muscles clench. He had never liked that man, but he could not send him away. While the man was no true lord, he had somehow made himself treasurer of Tinas, hence a member of the very council Dario had just summoned. Not to mention the fact that he was the richest man in the city; some said richer than the Earl. He was also generously funding Dario’s army, so Dario could not truly disapprove of him. He just could not bring himself to like the man’s attitude, or his shrewd smile, the very smile he was flaunting right now as he bowed a perfect bow and said:

“My lord commander.”

“Fillatis,” Dario replied. “As always, you have suspiciously perfect timing. A paranoid man might think you have ears in the castle’s walls.”

Oliman Fillatis drawled affably: “Lord Langham, you offend me. I merely trade in cheese and wine, not whispers and secrets.”

“So you say. And yet, to be here so quick, you must have heard _something_.”

“Everyone with ears has heard _something_ , my lord. But then, your men summon Dàlaras as he’s teaching Aticasi history to my daughter; summon him to the dungeons, no less. I’ve been merely connecting the dots.”

“Is that so?” Dario asked with some annoyance, but no true surprise. “Tell me then, what picture have you uncovered?”

Oliman smiled his shrewd smile again. “One that might require my expertise to become _true_ _art_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update in less than a month? Might this be HTTYD’s birthday? (Ok it was a few days ago, let’s call it a birthweek.)
> 
> Anyway, the next chapter will be Hiccup’s. We’ll be having more Hiccup and Toothless chapters for a while, with the exception of one or two Berkian POVs. I still hope you’ve enjoyed this glimpse into the commander’s life.
> 
> If you don’t find depictions of political and military maneuvering particularly interesting, rest assured that there won’t be much more than this. From now on, we’ll mostly see their consequences directly on Hiccup and Toothless. However, I do occasionally like to explore the political situation of a place from the inside, and, since we are going to be staying in Tinas for a bit, I thought it was appropriate.
> 
> If you would like me to delve deeper into the political and military structure of Erfar, do let me know, though keep in mind that this story is about Hiccup and Toothless first and foremost.

**Author's Note:**

> Please do consider leaving a comment or review to inform me of any mistakes or inconsistencies, or just to tell me what you think. I find both approval and criticism equally valuable. Thanks for reading!


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